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L162 


THE  WORKS 


OF 


MODERN  PAINTERS,  Vols.  I  and  11. 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 
1885 


MoDERisr  Painters 


BT 


A  GEADUATE  OF  OXFORD 


"  Accuse  me  not 
Of  arrogance,  .... 
If,  having  walked  witli  Nature, 
And  offered,  far  as  frailty  would  allow, 
My  heart  a  daily  sacrifice  to  Truth, 
I  now  affirm  of  Nature  and  of  Truth, 
Whom  I  have  served,  that  their  Divinity 
Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  men. 
Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  soul 
Be  of  a  thousand  faculties  composed, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  interests,  do  yet  prize 
This  soul,  and  the  transcendent  universe 
No  more  than  as  a  mirror  that  reflects 
To  proud  Self-love  her  own  inteUigence." 

Wordsworth 


Part  I.— II. 


VOLUME  I. 


NEW  YORK: 
JOHN    B.    ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 
1S85. 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


7  <r6. 1 


r 

o 


THE  LANDSCAPE  ARTISTS  OF  ENGLAND 

THIS  WORK 
is  respectfully  dedicated 
by  their  sincere  admirer 

The  Author 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


The  work  now  laid  before  the  public  originated  in  indig- 
nation at  the  shallow  and  false  criticism  of  the  periodicals  of 
the  day  on  the  works  of  the  great  living  artist  to  whom  it 
principally  refers.  It  was  intended  to  be  a  short  pamphlet, 
reprobating  the  matter  and  style  of  those  critiques,  and 
pointing  out  their  perilous  tendency,  as  guides  of  public 
feeling.  But,  as  point  after  point  presented  itself  for  dem- 
onstration, I  found  myself  compelled  to  amplify  what  was 
at  first  a  letter  to  the  Editor  of  a  Review,  into  something 
very  like  a  treatise  on  art,  to  which  I  was  obliged  to  give 
the  more  consistency  and  completeness,  because  it  advo- 
cated opinions  which,  to  the  ordinary  connoisseur,  will  sound 
heretical.  I  now  scarcely  know  whether  I  should  announce 
it  is  an  Essay  on  Landscape  Painting,  and  apologize  for  its 
frequent  reference  to  the  works  of  a  particular  master;  or, 
announcing  it  as  a  critique  on  particular  works,  apologize 
for  its  lengthy  disscussion  of  general  principles.  But  of 
whatever  character  the  work  may  be  considered,  the  motives 
which  led  me  to  undertake  it  must  not  be  mistaken.  No 
zeal  for  the  reputation  of  any  individual,  no  personal  feeling 
of  any  kind,  has  the  slightest  weight  or  influence  with  me. 
The  reputation  of  the  great  artist  to  whose  works  I  have 
chiefly  referred,  is  established  on  too  legitimate  grounds 
among  all  whose  admiration  is  honorable,  to  be  in  any  way 
affected  by  the  ignorant  sarcasms  of  pretension  and  affecta- 
tion. But  when  public  taste  seems  plunging  deeper  and 
deeper  into  degradation  day  by  day,  and  when  the  press 


6 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


universally  exerts  such  power  as  it  possesses  to  direct  the 
feeling  of  the  nation  more  completely  to  all  that  is  theatri- 
cal, affected,  and  false  in  art  ;  while  it  vents  its  ribald  buf- 
fooneries on  the  most  exalted  truth,  and  the  hio^hest  ideal 
of  landscape,  that  this  or  any  other  age  has  ever  witnessed, 
it  becomes  the  imperative  duty  of  all  who  have  any  percep- 
tion or  knowledge  of  what  is  really  great  in  art,  and  any 
desire  for  its  advancement  in  England,  to  come  fearlessly 
forward,  regardless  of  such  individual  interests  as  are  likely 
to  be  injured  by  the  knowledge  of  what  is  good  and  right,  to 
declare  and  demonstrate,  wherever  they  exist,  the  essence 
and  the  authority  of  the  Beautiful  and  the  True. 

Whatever  may  seem  invidious  or  partial  in  the  execution 
of  my  task  is  dependent  not  so  much  on  the  tenor  of  the 
work,  as  on  its  incompleteness.  I  have  not  entered  into 
systematic  criticism  of  all  the  painters  of  the  present  day  ; 
but  I  have  illustrated  each  particular  excellence  and  truth  of 
art  by  the  works  in  which  it  exists  in  the  highest  degree, 
resting  satisfied  that  if  it  be  once  rightly  felt  and  enjoyed 
in  these,  it  will  be  discovered  and  appreciated  wherever  it 
exists  in  others.  And  although  I  have  never  suppressed 
any  conviction  of  the  superiority  of  one  artist  over  another, 
which  I  believed  to  be  grounded  on  truth,  and  necessary  to 
the  understanding  of  truth,  I  have  been  cautious  never  to 
undermine  positive  rank,  while  I  disputed  relative  rank. 
My  uniform  desire  and  aim  have  been,  not  that  the  present 
favorite  should  be  admired  less,  but  that  the  neglected 
master  should  be  admired  more,  iind  I  know  that  an  in- 
creased perception  and  sense  of  truth  and  beauty,  though  it 
may  interfere  with  our  estimate  of  the  comparative  rank  of 
painters,  will  invariably  tend  to  increase  our  admiration  of 
all  who  are  really  great  ;  and  he  who  now  places  Stanfield 
and  Callcott  above  Turner,  will  admire  Stanfield  and  Call- 
cott  more  than  he  does  now,  when  he  has  learned  to  place 
Turner  far  above  them  both. 

In  three  instances  only  have  I  spoken  in  direct  deprecia- 
tion of  the  works  of  living  artists,  and  these  are  all  cases  in 
which  the  reputation  is  so  firm  and  extended,  as  to  suffer 


PBEFAGE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


7 


little  injury  from  the  opinion  of  an  individual,  and  where 
the  blame  has  been  warranted  and  deserved  by  the  desecra- 
tion of  the  highest  powers. 

Of  the  old  masters  I  have  spoken  with  far  greater  free- 
dom ;  but  let  it  be  remembered  that  only  a  portion  of  the 
work  is  now  presented  to  the  public,  and  it  must  not  be  sup- 
posed, because  in  that  particular  portion,  and  with  reference 
to  particular  excellencies,  I  have  spoken  in  constant  depre- 
ciation, that  I  have  no  feeling  of  other  excellencies  of  which 
cognizance  can  only  be  taken  in  future  parts  of  the  work. 
Let  me  not  be  understood  to  mean  more  than  I  have  said, 
nor  be  made  responsible  for  conclusions  when  I  have  only 
stated  facts.  I  have  said  that  the  old  masters  did  not  give 
the  truth  of  Nature  ;  if  the  reader  chooses,  thence,  to  infer 
that  they  were  not  masters  at  all,  it  is  his  conclusion,  not 
mine. 

Whatever  I  have  asserted  throughout  the  work,  I  have 
endeavored  to  ground  altogether  on  demonstrations  which 
must  stand  or  fall  by  their  own  strength,  and  which  ought 
to  involve  no  more  reference  to  authority  or  character  than 
a  demonstration  in  Euclid.  Yet  it  is  proper  for  the  public 
to  know,  that  the  writer  is  no  mere  theorist,  but  has  been 
devoted  from  his  youth  to  the  laborious  study  of  practical 
art. 

Whatever  has  been  generally  affirmed  of  the  old  schools 
of  landscape-painting  is  founded  on  familiar  acquaintance 
with  every  important  work  of  art,  from  Antwerp  to  Naples. 
But  it  would  be  useless,  where  close  and  immediate  compari- 
son with  works  in  our  own  Academy  is  desirable,  to  refer  to 
the  details  of  pictures  at  Rome  or  Munich  ;  and  it  would  be 
impossible  to  speak  at  once  with  just  feeling,  as  regarded  the 
possessor,  and  just  freedom,  as  regarded  the  public,  of  pict- 
ures in  private  galleries.  Whatever  particular  references 
have  been  made  for  illustration,  have  been  therefore  confined, 
as  far  as  was  in  my  power,  to  works  in  the  National  and  Dul- 
wich  Galleries. 

Finally,  I  have  to  apologize  for  the  imperfection  of  a 
work  which  I  could  have  wished  not  to  have  executed,  but 


8  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION, 

with  years  of  reflection  and  revisal.  It  is  owing  to  my  sense 
of  the  necessity  of  such  revisal,  that  only  a  portion  of  the 
work  is  now  presented  to  the  public ;  but  that  portion  is 
both  complete  in  itself,  and  is  more  peculiarly  directed 
against  the  crying  evil  which  called  for  instant  remedy. 
Whether  I  ever  completely  fulfil  my  intention,  will  partly 
depend  upon  the  spirit  in  which  the  present  volume  is  re- 
ceived. If  it  be  attributed  to  an  invidious  spirit,  or  a  desire 
for  the  advancement  of  individual  interests,  I  could  hope  to 
effect  little  good  by  farther  effort.  If,  on  the  contrary,  its 
real  feeling  and  intention  be  understood,  I  shall  shrink  from 
no  labor  in  the  execution  of  a  task  which  may  tend,  however 
feebly,  to  the  advancement  of  the  cause  of  real  art  in  Eng- 
land, and  to  the  honor  of  those  great  living  Masters  whom 
we  now  neglect  or  malign,  to  pour  our  flattery  into  the  ear 
of  Death,  and  exalt,  with  vain  acclamation,  the  names  of 
those  who  neither  demand  our  praise,  nor  regard  our  grati- 
tude. 

The  Author. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


It  is  allowed  by  the  most  able  writers  on  naval  and  mil- 
itary tactics,  that  although  the  attack  by  successive  divis- 
ions absolutely  requires  in  the  attacking  party  such  an  in- 
herent superiority  in  quality  of  force,  and  such  conscious- 
ness of  that  superiority,  as  may  enable  his  front  columns,  or 
his  leading  ships,  to  support  themselves  for  a  considerable 
period  against  overwhelming  numbers ;  it  yet  insures,  if 
maintained  with  constancy,  the  most  total  ruin  of  the  oppos- 
ing force.  Convinced  of  the  truth,  and  therefore  assured  of 
the  ultimate  prevalence  and  victory  of  the  principles  which 
I  have  advocated,  and  equally  confident  that  the  strength  of 
the  cause  must  give  weight  to  the  strokes  of  even  the  weak- 
est of  its  defenders,  I  permitted  myself  to  yield  to  a  some- 
what hasty  and  hot-headed  desire  of  being,  at  whatever 
risk,  in  the  thick  of  the  fire,  and  began  the  contest  with  a 
part,  and  that  the  weakest  and  least  considerable  part,  of 
the  forces  at  my  disposal.  And  I  now  find  the  volume  thus 
boldly  laid  before  the  public  in  a  position  much  resembling 
that  of  the  Royal  Sovereign  at  Trafalgar,  receiving,  unsup- 
ported, the  broadsides  of  half  the  enemy's  fleet,  while  unfore- 
seen circumstances  have  hitherto  prevented,  and  must  yet 
for  a  time  prevent,  my  heavier  ships  of  the  line  from  taking 
any  part  in  the  action.  I  watched  the  first  moments  of  the 
struggle  with  some  anxiety  for  the  solitary  vessel, — an 
anxiety  which  I  have  now  ceased  to  feel, — for  the  flag  of 
truth  waves  brightly  through  the  smoke  of  the  battle,  and 
my  antagonists,  wholly  intent  on  the  destruction  of  the  lead- 


10  FEEFAGE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


ing  ship,  have  lost  their  position  and  exposed  themselves  in 
defenceless  disorder  to  the  attack  of  the  following  columns. 

If,  however,  I  have  had  no  reason  to  regret  my  hasty  ad- 
vance, as  far  as  regards  the  ultimate  issue  of  the  struggle,  I 
have  yet  found  it  to  occasion  much  misconception  of  the 
character,  and  some  diminution  of  the  influence,  of  the  pres- 
ent essay.  For  though  the  w^ork  has  been  received  as  only 
in  sanguine  moments  I  had  ventured  to  hope,  though  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  knovs^ing  that  in  many  instances  its  prin- 
ciples have  carried  with  them  a  strength  of  conviction 
amounting  to  a  demonstration  of  their  truth,  and  that,  even 
w^here  it  has  had  no  other  influence,  it  has  excited  interest, 
suggested  inquiry,  and  prompted  to  a  just*and  frank  com- 
parison of  Art  with  Nature  ;  yet  this  effect  would  have  been 
greater  still,  had  not  the  work  been  supposed,  as  it  seems  to 
have  been  by  many  readers,  a  completed  treatise,  containing 
a  systematized  statement  of  the  whole  of  my  views  on  the 
subject  of  modern  art.  Considered  as  such,  it  surprises  me 
that  the  book  should  have  received  the  slightest  attention. 
For  what  respect  could  be  due  to  a  writer  who  pretended  to 
criticise  and  classify  the  works  of  the  great  painters  of  land- 
scape, without  developing,  or  even  alluding  to,  one  single 
principle  of  the  beautiful  or  sublime  ?  So  far  from  being  a 
completed  essay,  it  is  little  more  than  the  introduction  to  the 
mass  of  evidence  and  illustration  which  I  have  yet  to  bring 
forward  ;  it  treats  of  nothing  but  the  initiatory  steps  of  art, 
states  nothing  but  the  elementary  rules  of  criticism,  touches 
only  on  merits  attainable  by  accuracy  of  eye  and  fidelity  of 
hand,  and  leaves  for  future  consideration  every  one  of  the 
eclectic  qualities  of  pictures,  all  of  good  that  is  prompted  by 
feeling,  and  of  great  that  is  guided  by  judgment  ;  and  its 
function  and  scope  should  the  less  have  been  mistaken,  be- 
cause I  have  not  only  most  carefully  arranged  the  subject 
in  its  commencement,  but  have  given  frequent  references 
throughout  to  the  essays  by  which  it  is  intended  to  be  suc- 
ceeded, in  which  I  shall  endeavor  to  point  out  the  significa- 
tion and  the  value  of  those  phenomena  of  external  nature 
which  I  have  been  hitherto  compelled  to  describe  without 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  11 


reference  either  to  their  inherent  beauty,  or  to  the  lessons 
which  may  be  derived  from  them. 

Yet,  to  prevent  such  misconception  in  future,  I  may  per- 
haps be  excused  for  occupying  the  reader's  time  w^ith  a  fuller 
statement  of  the  feelings  vs^ith  which  the  work  was  under- 
taken, of  its  general  plan,  and  of  the  conclusions  and  posi- 
tions which  I  hope  to  be  able  finally  to  deduce  and  maintain. 

Nothing,  perhaps,  bears  on  the  face  of  it  more  appearance 
of  folly,  ignorance,  and  impertinence,  than  any  attempt  to 
diminish  the  honor  of  those  to  whom  the  assent  of  many 
generations  has  assigned  a  throne  ;  for  the  truly  great  of 
later  times  have,  almost  without  exception,  fostered  in  oth- 
ers the  veneration  of  departed  power  which  they  felt  them- 
selves, satisfied  in  all  humility  to  take  their  seat  at  the  feet 
of  those  whose  honor  is  brightened  by  the  hoariness  of  time, 
and  to  wait  for  the  period  when  the  lustre  of  many  departed 
days  may  accumulate  on  their  own  heads,  in  the  radiance 
which  culminates  as  it  recedes.  The  envious  and  incompe- 
tent have  usually  been  the  leaders  of  attack,  content  if,  like 
the  foulness  of  the  earth,  they  may  attract  to  themselves 
notice  by  their  noisomeness,  or,  like  its  insects,  exalt  them- 
selves by  virulence  into  visibility.  While,  however,  the  envy 
of  the  vicious,  and  the  insolence  of  the  ignorant,  are  occa- 
sionally shown  in  their  nakedness  by  futile  efforts  to  degrade 
the  dead,  it  is  worthy  of  consideration  whether  they  may 
not  more  frequently  escape  detection  in  successful  efforts  to 
degrade  the  living, — whether  the  very  same  malice  may  not 
be  gratified,  the  very  same  incompetence  demonstrated  in 
the  unjust  lowering  of  present  greatness,  and  the  unjust  ex- 
altation of  a  perished  power,  as,  if  exerted  and  manifested 
in  a  less  safe  direction,  would  have  classed  the  critic  with 
Nero  and  Caligula,  with  Zoilus  and  Perrault.  Be  it  remem- 
bered, that  the  spirit  of  detraction  is  detected  only  when 
unsuccessful,  and  receives  least  punishment  where  it  effects 
the  greatest  injury  ;  and  it  cannot  but  be  felt  that  there  is 
as  much  danger  that  the  rising  of  new  stars  should  be  con- 
cealed by  the  mists  which  are  unseen,  as  that  those  throned  in 
heaven  should  be  darkened  by  the  clouds  which  are  visible. 


12 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


There  is,  I  fear,  so  much  malice  in  the  hearts  of  most  men, 
that  they  are  chiefly  jealous  of  that  praise  which  can  give 
the  greatest  pleasure,  and  are  then  most  liberal  of  eulogium 
when  it  can  no  longer  be  enjoyed.  They  grudge  not  the 
whiteness  of  the  sepulchre,  because  by  no  honor  they  can 
bestow  upon  it  can  the  senseless  corpse  be  rendered  an  ob- 
ject of  envy  ;  but  they  are  niggardly  of  the  reputation 
which  contributes  to  happiness,  or  advances  to  fortune. 
They  are  glad  to  obtain  credit  for  generosity  and  humility 
by  exalting  those  who  are  beyond  the  reach  of  praise,  and 
thus  to  escape  the  more  painful  necessity  of  doing  homage 
to  a  living  rival.  They  are  rejoiced  to  set  up  a  standard  of 
imaginary  excellence,  which  may  enable  them,  by  insisting 
on  the  inferiority  of  a  contemporary  w^ork  to  the  things  that 
have  been,  to  withdraw  the  attention  from  its  superiority  to 
the  things  that  are.  The  same  undercurrent  of  jealousy 
operates  in  our  reception  of  animadversion.  Men  have  com- 
monly more  pleasure  in  the  criticism  which  hurts  than  in 
that  which  is  innocuous,  and  are  more  tolerant  of  the  severity 
which  breaks  hearts  and  ruins  fortunes,  than  of  that  which 
falls  impotently  on  the  grave. 

And  thus  well  says  the  good  and  deep-minded  Richard 
Hooker:  "  To  the  best  and  wisest,  while  they  live,  the  world 
is  continually  a  froward  opposite  ;  and  a  curious  observer  of 
their  defects  and  imperfections,  their  virtues  afterwards  it  as 
much  admireth.  And  for  this  cause,  many  times  that  which 
deserveth  admiration  would  hardly  be  able  to  find  favor,  if 
they  which  propose  it  were  not  content  to  profess  themselves 
therein  scholars  and  followers  of  the  ancient.  For  the  world 
will  not  endure  to  hear  that  we  are  w^iser  than  any  have  been 
which  went  before." — Book  v.  ch.  vii.  3.  He,  therefore,  who 
would  maintain  the  cause  of  contemporary  excellence  against 
that  of  elder  time,  must  have  almost  every  class  of  men  ar- 
rayed against  him.  The  generous,  because  they  would  not 
find  matter  of  accusation  against  established  dignities  ;  the 
envious,  because  they  like  not  the  sound  of  a  living  man's 
praise  ;  the  wise,  because  they  prefer  the  opinion  of  centu- 
ries to  that  of  days  ;  and  the  foolish,  because  they  are  in- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


13 


capable  of  forming  an  opinion  of  their  own.  Obloquy  so 
universal  is  not  lightly  to  be  risked,  and  the  few  who  make 
an  effort  to  stem  the  torrent,  as  it  is  made  commonly  in 
favor  of  their  own  works,  deserve  the  contempt  which  is 
their  only  reward.  Nor  is  this  to  be  regretted,  in  its  influ- 
ence on  the  progress  and  preservation  of  things  technical 
and  communicable.  Respect  for  the  ancients  is  the  'salvation 
of  art,  though  it  sometimes  blinds  us  to  its  ends.  It  in- 
creases the  power  of  the  painter,  though  it  diminishes  his 
liberty;  and  if  it  be  sometimes  an  incumbrance  to  the  essays 
of  invention,  it  is  of tener  a  protection  from  the  consequences 
of  audacity.  The  w^hole  system  and  discipline  of  art,  the 
collected  results  of  the  experience  of  ages,  might,  but  for  the 
fixed  authority  of  antiquity,  be  sw^ept  away  by  the  rage  of 
fashion,  or  lost  in  the  glare  of  novelty;  and  the  knowledge 
which  it  had  taken  centuries  to  accumulate,  the  principles 
which  mighty  minds  had  arrived  at  only  in  dying,  might  be 
overthrown  by  the  frenzy  of  a  faction,  and.abandoned  in  the 
insolence  of  an  hour. 

Neither,  in  its  general  application,  is  the  persuasion  of  the 
superiority  of  former  works  less  just  than  useful.  The  greater 
number  of  them  are,  and  must  be,  immeasurably  nobler  than 
any  of  the  results  of  present  effort,  because  that  which  is 
best  of  the  productions  of  four  thousand  years  must  neces- 
sarily be,  in  its  accumulation,  beyond  all  rivalry  from  the 
works  of  any  given  generation  ;  but  it  should  always  be  re- 
membered that  it  is  improbable  that  many,  and  impossible 
that  all,  of  such  works,  though  the  greatest  yet  produced, 
should  approach  abstract  perfection  ;  that  there  is  certainly 
something  left  for  us  to  carry  farther,  or  complete  ;  that  any 
given  generation  has  just  the  same  chance  of  producing  some 
individual  mind  of  first-rate  calibre,  as  any  of  its  predeces- 
sors ;  and  that  if  such  a  mind  should  arise,  the  chances  are, 
that  with  the  assistance  of  experience  and  example,  it  would, 
in  its  particular  and  chosen  path,  do  greater  things  than  had 
been  before  done. 

We  must  therefore  be  cautious  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  real 
use  of  what  has  been  left  us  by  antiquity,  nor  to  take  that 


14  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITIOK 


for  a  model  of  perfection  which  is,  in  many  cases,  ^^^J  a 
guide  to  it.  The  picture  which  is  looked  to  for  an  interpre- 
tation of  nature  is  invaluable,  but  the  picture  which  is  taken 
as  a  substitute  for  nature,  had  better  be  burned;  and  the 
young  artist,  while  he  should  shrink  with  horror  from  the 
iconoclast  who  would  tear  from  him  every  landmark  and 
light  which  has  been  bequeathed  him  by  the  ancients,  and 
leave  him  in  a  liberated  childhood,  may  be  equally  certain  of 
being  betrayed  by  those  who  would  give  him  the  power  and 
the  knowledge  of  past  time,  and  then  fetter  his  strength 
from  all  advance,  and  bend  his  eyes  backward  on  a  beaten 
path — who  would  thrust  canvas  between  him  and  the  sky, 
and  tradition  between  him  and  God. 

And  such  conventional  teaching  is  the  more  to  be  dreaded, 
because  all  that  is  highest  in  art,  all  that  is  creative  and 
imaginative,  is  formed  and  created  by  every  great  master  for 
himself,  and  cannot  be  repeated  or  imitated  by  others.  We 
judge  of  the  excellence  of  a  rising  writer,  not  so  much  by 
the  resemblance  of  his  works  to  what  has  been  done  before, 
as  by  their  difference  from  it;  and  while  we  advise  him,  in 
his  first  trials  of  strength,  to  set  certain  models  before  him 
with  respect  to  inferior  points, — one  for  versification,  another 
for  arrangement,  another  for  treatment, — we  yet  admit  not 
his  greatness  until  he  has  broken  away  from  all  his  models, 
and  struck  forth  versification,  arrangement,  and  treatment 
of  his  own. 

Three  points,  therefore,  I  would  especially  insist  upon  as 
necessary  to  be  kept  in  mind  in  all  criticism  of  modern  art. 
First,  that  there  are  few,  very  few  of  even  the  best  produc- 
tions of  antiquity,  which  are  not  visibly  and  palpably  imper- 
fect in  some  kind  or  way,  and  conceivably  improvable  by 
farther  study;  that  every  nation,  perhaps  every  generation, 
has  in  all  probability  some  peculiar  gift,  some  particular 
character  of  mind,  enabling  it  to  do  something  different  from, 
or  something  in  some  sort  better  than  what  has  been  before 
done;  and  that  therefore,  unless  art  be  a  trick,  or  a  manu- 
facture, of  which  the  secrets  are  lost,  the  greatest  minds  of 
existing  nations,  if  exerted  with  the  same  industry,  passion, 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


15 


and  honest  aim  as  those  of  past  time,  have  a  chance  in  their 
particular  walk  of  doing  something  as  great,  or,  taking  the 
advantage  of  former  example  into  account,  even  greater  and 
better.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  by  what  laws  of  logic  some 
of  the  reviewers  of  the  following  Essay  have  construed  its 
first  sentence  into  a  denial  of  this  principle, — a  denial  such 
as  their  own  conventional  and  shallow  criticism  of  modern 
works  invariably  implies.  I  have  said  that  ^'  nothing  has 
been  for  centuries  consecrated  by  public  admiration  without 
possessing  in  a  high  degree  some  species  of  sterling  excel- 
lence." Does  it  thence  follow  that  it  possesses  in  the  highest 
degree  every  species  of  sterling  excellence  ?  Yet  thus," 
says  the  sapient  reviewer,  "  he  admits  the  fact  against  which 
he  mainly  argues, — namely,  the  superiority  of  these  time- 
honored  productions."  As  if  the  possession  of  an  abstract 
excellence  of  some  kind  necessarily  implied  the  possession  of 
an  incomparable  excellence  of  every  kind  !  There  are  few 
works  of  man  so  perfect  as  to  admit  of  no  conception  of 
their  being  excelled,* — there  are  thousands  which  have  been 
for  centuries,  and  will  be  for  centuries  more,  consecrated  by 
public  admiration,  which  are  yet  imperfect  in  many  respects, 
and  have  been  excelled,  and  may  be  excelled  again.  Do  my 
opponents  mean  to  assert  that  nothing  good  can  ever  be 
bettered,  and  that  what  is  best  of  past  time  is  necessarily  best 
of  all  time  ?  Perugino,  I  suppose,  possessed  some  species  of 
sterling  excellence,  but  Perugino  was  excelled  by  Raffaelle; 
and  so,  Claude  possesses  some  species  of  sterling  excellence, 
but  it  follows  not  that  he  may  not  be  excelled  by  Turner. 

The  second  point  on  which  I  would  insist  is  that  if  a  mind 
were  to  arise  of  such  power  as  to  be  capable  of  equalling  or 
excelling  some  of  the  greatest  works  of  past  ages,  the  pro- 
ductions of  such  a  mind  would,  in  all  probability,  be  totally 
different  in  manner  and  matter  from  all  former  productions; 

*  One  or  two  fragments  of  Greek  sculpture,  the  works  of  Michael 
Angelo,  considered  with  reference  to  their  general  conception  and 
power,  and  the  Madonna  di  St.  Sisto,  are  all  that  I  should  myself  put 
into  such  a  category,  not  that  even  these  are  without  defect,  but  their 
defects  are  such  as  mortality  could  never  hope  to  rectify. 


16  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


for  the  more  powerful  the  intellect,  the  less  will  its  works 
resemble  those  of  other  men,  whether  predecessors  or  con- 
temporaries. Instead  of  reasoning,  therefore,  as  we  com- 
monly do,  in  matters  of  art,  that  because  such  and  such  a 
work  does  not  resemble  that  which  has  hitherto  been  a 
canon,  therefore  it  must  be  inferior  and  wrong  in  principle; 
let  us  rather  admit  that  there  is  in  its  very  dissimilarity  an 
increased  chance  of  its  being  itself  a  new,  and  perhaps,  a 
higher  canon.  If  any  production  of  modern  art  can  be  shown 
to  have  the  authority  of  nature  on  its  side,  and  to  be  based 
on  eternal  truths,  it  is  all  so  much  more  in  its  favor,  so  much 
farther  proof  of  its  power,  that  it  is  totally  different  from  all 
that  have  been  before  seen.* 

The  third  point  on  which  I  would  insist,  is  that  if  such  a 
mind  were  to  arise,  it  would  necessarily  divide  the  world  of 
criticism  into  two  factions;  the  one,  necessarily  the  largest 
and  loudest,  composed  of  men  incapable  of  judging  except 
by  precedent,  ignorant  of  general  truth,  and  acquainted  only 
with  such  particular  truths  as  may  have  been  illustrated  or 
pointed  out  to  them  by  former  works,  which  class  would  of 
course  be  violent  in  vituperation,  and  increase  in  animosity 
as  the  master  departed  farther  from  their  particular  and  pre- 
conceived canons  of  right, — thus  wounding  their  vanity  by 
impugning  their  judgment;  the  other,  necessarily  narrow  of 
number,  composed  of  men  of  general  knowledge  and  unbiassed 
haVjits  of  thought,  who  would  recognize  in  the  work  of  the 
daring  innovator  a  record  and  illustration  of  facts  before  un- 

*  This  principle  is  dangerous,  but  not  the  less  true,  and  necessary  to 
be  kept  in  mind.  There  is  scarcely  any  truth  which  does  not  admit  of 
being  wrested  to  purposes  of  evil,  and  we  must  not  deny  the  desirable- 
ness of  originality,  because  men  may  err  in  seeking  for  it,  or  because  a 
pretence  to  it  may  be  made,  by  presumption,  a  cloak  for  its  incompe- 
tence. Nevertheless,  originality  is  never  to  be  sought  for  its  own  sake — 
otherwise  it  will  be  mere  aberration — it  should  arise  naturally  out  of  hard, 
independent  study  of  nature  ;  and  it  should  be  remembered  that  in  many 
things  technical,  it  is  impossible  to  alter  without  being  inferior,  for 
therein,  as  says  Spencer,  "Truth  is  one,  and  right  is  ever  one;"  but 
wrongs  are  various  and  multitudinous.  **  Vice,"  says  Byron,  in  Marino 
Faliero,  "  must  have  variety;  but  Virtue  stands  like  the  sun,  and  all 
which  rolls  around  drinks  lii'e  from  her  aspect.'* 


PBEFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


17 


seized,  who  would  justly  and  candidly  estimate  the  value  of 
the  truths  so  rendered,  and  would  increase  in  fervor  of  ad- 
miration as  the  master  strode  farther  and  deeper,  and  more 
daringly  into  dominions  before  unsearched  or  unknown;  yet 
diminishing  in  multitude  as  they  increased  in  enthusiasm: 
for  by  how  much  their  leader  became  more  impatient  in  his 
step — more  impetuous  in  his  success — more  exalting  in  his 
research,  by  so  much  must  the  number  capable  of  following 
him  become  narrower,  until  at  last,  supposing  him  never  to 
pause  in  his  advance,  he  might  be  left  in  the  very  culminat- 
ino;  moment  of  his  consummate  achievement,  with  but  a 
faithful  few  by  his  side,  his  former  disciples  fallen  away,  his 
former  enemies  doubled  in  numbers  and  virulence,  and  the 
evidence  of  his  supremacy  only  to  be  wrought  out  by  the 
devotion  of  men's  lives  to  the  earnest  study  of  the  new 
truths  he  had  discovered  and  recorded. 

Such  a  mind  has  arisen  in  our  days.  It  has  gone  on  from 
strength  to  strength,  laying  open  fields  of  conquest  peculiar 
to  itself.  It  has  occasioned  such  schism  in  the  schools  of 
criticism  as  was  beforehand  to  be  expected,  and  it  is  now  at 
the  zenith  of  its  power,  and,  consequently,  in  the  last  phase 
of  declining  popularity. 

This  I  know,  and  can  prove.  No  man,  says  Southey,  was 
ever  yet  convinced  of  any  momentous  truth  without  feeling 
in  himself  the  power,  as  well  as  the  desire  of  communicating 
it.  In  asserting  and  demonstrating  the  supremacy  of  this 
great  master,  I  shall  both  do  immediate  service  to  the  cause 
of  right  art,  and  shall  be  able  to  illustrate  many  principles  of 
landscape  painting  which  are  of  general  application,  and 
have  hitherto  been  unacknowledged. 

For  anything  like  immediate  effect  on  the  public  mind,  I 
do  not  hope.  "  We  mistake  men's  diseases,"  says  Richard 
Baxter,  "  when  we  think  there  needeth  nothing  to  cure 
them  of  their  errors  but  the  evidence  of  truth.  Alas!  there 
are  many  distempers  of  mind  to  be  removed  before  they  re- 
ceive that  evidence."  Nevertheless,  when  it  is  fully  laid 
before  them,  my  duty  will  be  done.  Conviction  will  follow 
in  due  time. 

Vol.  L— 2 


18 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SEOOWB  EDITION, 


I  do  not  consider  myself  as  in  any  way  addressing,  or  hav« 
ing  to  do  with,  the  ordinary  critics  of  the  press.  Their  writ- 
ings are  not  the  guide,  but  the  expression,  of  public  opinion. 
A  writer  for  a  newspaper  naturally  and  necessarily  endeav- 
ors to  meet,  as  nearly  as  he  can,  the  feelings  of  the  ma- 
jority of  his  readers  ;  his  bread  depends  on  his  doing  so. 
Precluded  by  the  nature  of  his  occupations  from  gaining 
any  knowledge  of  art,  he  is  sure  that  he  can  gain  credit  for 
it  by  expressing  the  opinions  of  his  readers.  He  mocks  the 
picture  which  the  public  pass,  and  bespatters  with  praise  the 
canvas  which  a  crowd  concealed  from  him. 

Writers  like  the  present  critic  of  Blackwood's  Magazine  * 
deserve  more  respect — the  respect  due  to  honest,  hopeless, 
helpless  imbecility.  There  is  something  exalted  in  the  inno- 
cence of  their  feeblemindedness  :  one  cannot  suspect  them 
of  partiality,  for  it  implies  feeling  ;  nor  of  prejudice,  for  it 
implies  some  previous  acquaintance^  with  their  subject.  I 
do  not  know  that  even  in  this  age  of  charlatanry,  I  could 
point  to  a  more  barefaced  instance  of  imposture  on  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  public,  than  the  insertion  of  these  pieces  of 
criticism  in  a  respectable  periodical.  We  are  not  insulted 
with  opinions  on  music  from  persons  ignorant  of  its  notes  ; 
nor  with  treatises  on  philology  by  persons  unacquainted 
with  the  alphabet  ;  but  here  is  page  after  page  of  criticism, 
which  one  may  read  from  end  to  end,  looking  for  something 
which  the  writer  knows,  and  finding  nothing.  Not  his  own 
language,  for  he  has  to  look  in  his  dictionary,  by  his  own 

*  It  is  with  regret  that,  in  a  work  of  this  nature,  I  take  notice  of 
criticisms,  which,  after  all,  are  merely  intended  to  amuse  the  careless 
reader,  and  be  forgotten  as  soon  as  read ;  but  I  do  so  in  comphance 
with  wishes  expressed  to  me  since  the  publication  of  this  work,  by  per- 
HODs  who  have  the  interests  of  art  deeply  at  heart,  and  who,  I  find, 
attach  more  importance  to  the  matter  than  I  should  have  been  disposed 
to  do.  I  have,  therefore,  marked  two  or  three  passages  which  may 
enable  the  public  to  judge  for  themselves  of  the  quality  of  these  cri- 
tiques ;  and  this  I  think  a  matter  of  justice  to  those  who  might  other- 
wise have  been  led  astray  by  them — more  than  this  I  cannot  consent  to 
do.  I  should  have  but  a  hound's  office  if  I  had  to  tear  the  tabard  from 
every  Rouge  Sanglier  of  the  arts — with  bell  and  bauble  to  back  him. 


PBEFAGE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION.  19 


confession,  for  a  word  *  occurring  in  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant chapters  of  his  Bible  ;  not  the  commonest  traditions 
of  the  schools,  for  he  does  not  know  why  Poussin  was  called 
"  learned  ;  "  f  not  the  most  simple  canons  of  art,  for  he  pre- 
fers Lee  to  Gainsborough  ;  J  not  the  most  ordinary  facts  of 

*  Chrysoprase  (Vide  No.  for  October,  1842,  p.  502.) 

f  Every  school- boy  knows  that  this  epithet  was  given  to  Poussin  in 
allusion  to  the  profound  classical  knowledge  of  the  painter.  The  re- 
viewer, hov\-ever  (September,  1841),  informs  us  that  the  expression  re- 
fers to  his  skill  in  "  Composition." 

t  Critique  on  Royal  Academy,  1842.  *'He"  (Mr.  Lee)  often  re- 
minds us  of  Gainsborough's  best  manner;  hut  h.Q  superior  to  him 
always  in  subject,  composition,  and  variety." — Shade  of  Gainsborough  ! 
—  deep-thoughted,  solemn  Gainsborough — forgive  us  for  re- writing  this 
sentence  ;  we  do  so  to  gibbet  its  perpetrator  forever, — and  leave  him 
swinging  in  the  winds  of  the  Fool's  Paradise.  It  is  with  great  pain 
that  I  ever  speak  with  severity  of  the  works  of  living  masters,  espe- 
cially v/hen,  like  Mr.  Lee's,  they  are  well-intentioned,  simple,  free  from 
affectation  or  imitation,  and  evidently  painted  with  constant  reference 
to  nature.  But  I  believe  that  these  qualities  will  always  secure  him 
that  admiration  which  he  deserves — that  there  will  be  many  unsophis- 
ticated and  honest  minds  always  ready  to  follow  his  guidance,  and 
answer  his  efforts  with  delight;  and  therefore,  that  I  need  not  fear  to 
point  out  in  him  the  want  of  those  technical  qualities  which  are  more 
especially  the  object  of  an  artist's  admiration.  Gainsborough's  power 
of  color  (it  is  mentioned  by  Sir  Joshua  as  his  peculiar  gift)  is  capable 
of  taking  rank  beside  that  of  Rubens ;  he  is  the  purest  colorist — Sir 
Joshua  himself  not  excepted — of  the  whole  English  school ;  with  him, 
in  fact,  the  art  of  painting  did  in  great  part  die,  and  exists  not  now  in 
Europe.  J^vidence  enough  will  be  seen  in  the  following  pages  of  my 
devoted  admiration  of  Turner  ;  but  I  hesitate  not  to  say,  that  in 
management  and  quality  of  single  and  particular  tint,  in  the  purely 
technical  part  of  painting,  Turner  is  a  child  of  Gainsborough.  Now, 
Mr.  Lee  never  aims  at  color  ;  he  does  not  make  it  his  object  in  the 
slightest  degree — the  spring  green  of  vegetation  is  all  that  he  desires  ; 
and  it  would  be  about  as  rational  to  compare  his  works  with  studied 
pieces  of  coloring,  as  the  modulation  of  the  Calabrian  pipe  to  the  har- 
mony of  a  full  orchestra.  Gainsborough's  hand  is  as  light  as  the  sweep 
of  a  cloud— as  swift  as  the  flash  of  a  sunbeam ;  Lee's  execution  is 
feeble  and  spotty.  Gainsborough's  masses  are  as  broad  as  the  first 
division  in  hpaven  of  lisrht  from  darkness  ;  Lee's  (perhaps  necessarily, 
con=;ideriug  the  effects  of  flickering  sunlight  at  which  he  aims)  are  as 
fragmentary  as  his  leaves,  and  as  numerous.    Gamsborough's  forms 


20  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


nature,  for  we  find  him  puzzled  by  the  epithet  "  silver,"  as 
applied  to  the  orange  blossom, — evidently  never  having 
seen  anything  silvery  about  an  orange  in  his  life,  except  a 
spoon.  Nay,  he  leaves  us  not  to  conjecture  his  calibre  from 
internal  evidence  ;  he  candidly  tells  us  (Oct.  1842)  that  he 
has  been  studying  trees  only  for  the  last  week,  and  bases 
his  critical  remarks  chiefly  on  his  practical  experience  of 
birch.  More  disinterested  than  our  friend  Sancho,  he  would 
disenchant  the  public  from  the  magic  of  Turner  by  virtue  of 
his  own  flagellation  ;  Xanthias-like,  he  would  rob  his  master 
of  immortality  by  his  own  powers  of  endurance.  What  is 
Christopher  North  about  ?  Does  he  receive  his  critiques 
from  Eaton  or  Harrow — based  on  the  experience  of  a 
week's  birds'-nesting  and  its  consequences?  How  low 
must  art  and  its  interests  sink,  when  the  public  mind  is 
inadequate  to  the  detection  of  this  effrontery  of  incapacity  ! 
In  all  kindness  to  Maga,  we  warn  her,  that,  though  the 
nature  of  this  work  precludes  us  from  devoting  space  to  the 
exposure,  there  may  come  a  time  when  the  public  shall  be 
themselves  able  to  distinguish  ribaldry  from  reasoning,  and 

are  grand,  simple,  and  ideal ;  Lee's  are  small,  confused,  and  unse- 
lected.  Gainsborough  never  loses  sight  of  his  picture  as  a  whole  ;  Lee 
is  but  too  apt  to  be  shackled  by  its  parts.  In  a  word,  Gainsborough  is 
an  immortal  painter  ;  and  Lee,  though  on  the  right  road,  is  yet  in  the 
early  stages  of  his  art  ;  and  the  man  who  could  imagine  any  resem- 
blance or  point  of  comparison  between  them,  is  not  only  a  novice  in 
art,  but  has  not  capacity  ever  to  be  anything  more.  He  may  be  par- 
doned for  not  comprehending  Turner,  for  long  preparatiod  and  disci- 
pline are  necessary  before  the  abstract  and  profound  philosophy  of  that 
artist  can  be  met ;  but  Gainsborough's  excellence  is  based  on  principles 
of  art  long  acknowledged,  and  facts  of  nature  universally  apparent ; 
and  I  insist  more  particularly  on  the  reviewer's  want  of  feeling  for  his 
works,  because  it  proves  a  truth  of  which  the  public  ought  especially 
to  be  assured  that  those  who  lavish  abuse  on  the  great  men  of  modern 
times,  are  equally  incapable  of  perceiving  the  real  excellence  of  estab- 
lished canons,  are  ignorant  of  the  commonest  and  most  acknowledged 
principia  of  the  art,  blind  to  the  most  palpable  and  comprehensible  of 
its  beauties,  incapable  of  distinguishing,  if  left  to  themselves,  a 
master's  work  from  the  vilest  school  copy,  and  founding  their  applause 
of  those  great  works  which  they  praise,  either  in  pure  hypocrisy,  or  in 
admiration  of  their  defects. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION.  21 


may  require  some  better  and  higher  qualifications  in  their 
critics  of  art,  than  the  experience  of  a  school-boy,  and  the 
capacities  of  a  buffoon. 

It  is  not,  however,  merely  to  vindicate  the  reputation  of 
those  whom  writers  like  these  defame,  which  would  but  be  to 
anticipate  by  a  few  years  the  natural  and  inevitable  reaction 
of  the  public  mind,  that  I  am  devoting  years  of  labor  to  the 
development  of  the  principles  on  which  the  great  produc- 
tions of  recent  art  are  based.  I  have  a  higher  end  in  view 
— one  which  may,  I  think,  justify  me,  not  only  in  the  sacrifice 
of  my  own  time,  but  in  calling  on  my  readers  to  follow  me 
through  an  investigation  far  more  laborious  than  could  be 
adequately  rewarded  by  mere  insight  into  the  merits  of  a  par- 
ticular master,  or  the  spirit  of  a  particular  age. 

It  is  a  question  which,  in  spite  of  the  claims  of  Painting 
to  be  called  the  Sister  of  Poetry,  appears  to  me  to  admit  of 
considerable  doubt,  whether  art  has  ever,  except  in  its 
earliest  and  rudest  stages,  possessed  anything  like  efficient 
moral  influence  on  mankind.  Better  the  state  of  Rome  when 

magnorum  artificum  frangebat  pocula  miles,  ut  phaleris 
gauderet  equus,"  than  when  her  walls  flashed^  with  the 
marble  and  the  gold,  "  nec  cessabat  luxuria  id  agere,  ut  quam 
plurimum  incendiis  perdat."  Better  the  state  of  religion  in 
Italy^  before  Giotto  had  broken  on  one  barbarism  of  the 
Byzantine  schools,  than  when  the  painter  of  the  Last  Judg- 
ment, and  the  sculptor  of  the  Perseus,  sat  revelling  side  by 
side.  It  appears  to  me  that  a  rude  symbol  is  oftener  more 
efficient  than  a  refined  one  in  touching  the  heart,  and  that 
as  pictures  rise  in  rank  as  works  of  art,  they  are  regarded 
with  less  devotion  and  more  curiosity. 

But,  however  this  may  be,  and  whatever  influence  we  may 
be  disposed  to  admit  in  the  great  works  of  sacred  art,  no 
doubt  can,  I  think,  be  reasonably  entertained  as  to  the  utter 
inutility  of  all  that  has  been  hitherto  accomplished  by  the 
painters  of  landscape.  No  moral  end  has  been  answered,  no 
permanent  good  effected,  by  any  of  their  works.  They  may 
have  amused  the  intellect,  or  exercised  the  ingenuity,  but 
they  never  have  spoken  to  the  heart.    Landscape  art  has 


22 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


never  taught  us  one  deep  or  holy  lesson  ;  it  has  not  recorded 
that  which  is  fleeting,  nor  penetrated  that  which  was  hidden, 
nor  interpreted  that  which  was  obscure  ;  it  has  never  made 
us  feel  the  wonder,  nor  the  power,  nor  the  glory,  of  the 
universe  ;  it  has  not  prompted  to  devotion,  nor  touched 
with  awe  ;  its  power  to  move  and  exalt  the  heart  has  been 
fatally  abused,  and  perished  in  the  abusing.  That  which 
>  ought  to  have  been  a  witness  to  the  omnipotence  of  God, 
has  become  an  exhibition  of  the  dexterity  of  man,  and  that 
which  should  have  lifted  our  thoughts  to  the  throne  of  the 
Deity,  has  encumbered  them  with  the  inventions  of  his 
creatures. 

If  we  stand  for  a  little  time  before  any  of  the  more  cele- 
brated works  of  landscape,  listening  to  the  comments  of  the 
passers-by,  we  shall  hear  numberless  expressions  relating  to 
the  skill  of  the  artist,  but  very  few  relating  to  the  perfection 
of  nature.  Hundreds  will  be  voluble  in  admiration,  for  one 
who  will  be  silent  in  delight.  Multitudes  will  laud  the  com- 
position, and  depart  with  the  praise  of  Claude  on  their  lips, — 
not  one  will  feel  as  if  it  were  no  composition,  and  depart 
with  the  praise  of  God  in  his  heart. 

These  are  the  signs  of  a  debased,  mistaken,  and  false 
school  of  painting.  The  skill  of  the  artist,  and  the  perfec- 
tion of  his  art,  are  never  proved  until  both  are  forgotten. 
The  artist  has  done  nothing  till  he  has  concealed  himself, — 
the  art  is  imperfect  which  is  visible, — the  feelings  are  but 
feebly  touched,  if  they  permit  us  to  reason  on  the  methods 
of  their  excitement.  In  the  reading  of  a  great  poem,  in  the 
hearing  of  a  noble  oration,  it  is  the  subject  of  the  writer, 
and  not  his  skill, — his  passion,  not  his  power,  on  which  our 
minds  are  fixed.  We  see  as  he  sees,  but  we  see  not  him. 
We  become  part  of  him,  feel  with  him,  judge,  behold  with 
him  ;  but  we  think  of  him  as  little  as  of  ourselves.  Do  we 
think  of  JEschylus  while  we  wait  on  the  silence  of  Cas- 
sandra,* or  of  Shakspeare,  while  we  listen  to  the  wailing  of 

*  There  is  a  fine  touch  in  the  Frogs  in  Aristophanes,  alhiding 
probably  to  this  part  of  the  Agamemnon.  '£701  8'  exai'Pov  rri  a-Kairri 
KoX  /ue  TovT   eTtpirei/  ovk  '^ttov  fj  vvu  6l  AaAoOx^res."    The  tauio  remark 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


23 


Lear  ?  Not  so.  The  power  of  the  masters  is  shown  by  their 
self-annihilation.  It  is  commensurate  with  the  degree  in 
which  they  themselves  appear  not  in  their  work.  The  -harp 
of  the  minstrel  is  untruly  touched,  if  his  own  glory  is  all 
that  it  records.  Every  great  writer  may  be  at  once  known 
bv  his  guiding  the  mind  far  from  himself,  to  the  beauty 
which  is  not  of  his  creation,  and  the  knowledge  which  is 
past  his  finding  out. 

And  must  it  ever  be  otherwise  with  painting,  for  other- 
wise it  has  ever  been.  Her  subjects  have  been  regarded  as 
mere  themes  on  which  the  artist's  power  is  to  be  displayed  ; 
and  that  power,  be  it  of  imitation,  composition,  idealization, 
or  of  whatever  other  kind,  is  the  chief  object  of  the  specta- 
tor's observation.  It  is  man  and  his  fancies,  man  and  his 
trickeries,  man  and  his  inventions, — poor,  paltry,  weak,  self- 
sighted  man, — which  the  connoisseur  forever  seeks  and  wor- 
ships. Among  potsherds  and  dunghills,  among  drunken 
boors  and  withered  beldames,  through  every  scene  of  de- 
bauchery^ and  degradation,  we  follow  the  erring  artist,  not  to 
receive  one  wholesome  lesson,  not  to  be  touched  with  pity, 
nor  moved  with  indignation,  but  to  watch  the  dexterity  of 
the  pencil,  and  gloat  over  the  glittering  of  the  hue. 

I  speak  not  only  of  the  works  of  the  Flemish  school — I 
wage  no  war  with  their  admirers  ;  they  may  be  left  in  peace 
to  count  the  spiculse  of  haystacks  and  the  hairs  of  donkeys 
— it  is  also  of  works  of  real  mind  that  I  speak, — works  in 
which  there  are  evidences  of  genius  and  workings  of  power, 
— works  which  have  been  held  up  as  containing  all  of  the 
beautiful  that  art  can  reach  or  man  conceive.  And  I  assert 
with  sorrow,  that  all  hitherto  done  in  landscape,  by  those 
commonly  conceived  its  masters,  has  never  prompted  one 

might  be  well  applied  to  the  seemingly  vacant  or  incomprehensible 
portions  of  Turner's  canvas.  In  their  mysterious  and  intense  fire, 
there  is  much  correspondence  between  the  mind  of  ^schylus  and  that 
of  our  great  painter.  They  share  at  least  one  thing  in  common — un- 
popularity, dyjfxos  aye^oa  Kpl(Tiv  iroiui/  HA.  h  rcoi/  Travovpyooy'^  AI.  ur)  At. 
ovpauiou  y   octov*     EA.     /u€t'   hla'x^)\ov  5*  ovk  fjaay  erepoL  (rujjif.i.axoi  AI. 


24 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITIOK 


holy  thought  in  the  minds  of  nations.  It  has  begun  and 
ended  in  exhibiting  the  dexterities  of  individuals,  and  con- 
ventionalities of  systems.  Filling  the  world  with  the  honor 
of  Claude  and  Salvator,  it  has  never  once  tended  to  the 
honor  of  God. 

Does  the  reader  start  in  reading  these  last  words,  as  if 
they  were  those  of  wild  enthusiasm, — as  if  I  were  lowering 
the  dignity  of  religion  by  supposing  that  its  cause  could  be 
advanced  by  such  means  ?  His  surprise  proves  my  position. 
It  does  sound  like  wild,  like  absurd  enthusiasm,  to  expect 
any  definite  moral  agency  in  the  painters  of  landscape  ;  but 
ought  it  so  to  sound  ?  Are  the  gorgeousness  of  the  visible 
hue,  the  glory  of  the  realized  form,  instruments  in  the 
artist's  hand  so  ineffective,  that  they  can  answer  no  nobler 
purpose  than  the  amusement  of  curiosity,  or  the  engage- 
ment of  idleness  ?  Must  it  not  be  owing  to  gross  neglect  or 
misapplication  of  the  means  at  his  command,  that  while 
words  and  tones  (means  of  representing  nature  surely  less 
powerful  than  lines  and  colors)  can  kindle  and  purify  the 
very  inmost  souls  of  men,  the  painter  can  only  hope  to  en- 
tertain by  his  efforts  at  expression,  and  must  remain  forever 
brooding  over  his  incommunicable  thoughts  ? 

The  cause  of  the  evil  lies,  I  believe,  deep-seated  in  the 
system  of  ancient  landscape  art  ;  it  consists,  in  a  word,  in 
the  painter's  taking  upon  him  to  modify  God's  works  at  his 
pleasure,  casting  the  shadow  of  himself  on  all  he  sees,  con- 
stituting himself  arbiter  where  it  is  honor  to  be  a  disciple, 
and  exhibiting  his  ingenuity  by  the  attainment  of  combina- 
tions whose  highest  praise  is  that  they  are  impossible.  We 
shall  not  pass  through  a  single  gallery  of  old  art,  without 
hearing  this  topic  of  praise  confidently  advanced.  The 
sense  of  artificialness,  the  absence  of  all  appearance  of 
reality,  the  clumsiness  of  combination  by  which  the  meddling 
of  man  is  made  evident,  and  the  feebleness  of  his  hand 
branded  on  the  inorganization  of  his  monstrous  creature,  is 
advanced  as  a  proof  of  inventive  power,  as  an  evidence  of 
abstracted  conception  ; — nay,  the  violation  of  specific  form, 
the  utter  abandonment  of  all  organic  and  individual  charac- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  25 


ter  of  object,  (numberless  examples  of  which  from  the  works 
of  the  old  masters  are  given  in  the  following  pages,)  is  con- 
stantly held  up  by  the  unthinking  critic  as  the  foundation  of 
the  grand  or  historical  style,  and  the  first  step  to  the  attain- 
ment of  a  pure  ideal.  Now,  there  is  but  one  grand  style,  in 
the  treatment  of  all  subjects  whatsoever,  and  that  style  is 
based  on  the  perfect  knowledge,  and  consists  in  the  simple, 
unencumbered  rendering,  of  the  specific  characters  of  the 
given  object,  be  it  man,  beast,  or  flower.  Every  change, 
caricature,  or  abandonment  of  such  specific  character,  is  as 
destructive  of  grandeur  as  it  is  of  truth,  of  beauty  as  of 
propriety.  Every  alteration  of  the  features  of  nature  has 
its  origin  either  in  powerless  indolence  or  blind  audacity,  in 
the  folly  which  forgets,  or  the  insolence  which  desecrates, 
works  which  it  is  the  pride  of  angels  to  know,  and  their 
privilege  to  love. 

We  sometimes  hear  such  infringement  of  universal  laws 
justified  on  the  plea,  that  the  frequent  introduction  of  myth- 
ological abstractions  into  ancient  landscape  requires  an  im- 
aginary character  of  form  in  the  material  objects  with  which 
they  are  associated.  Something  of  this  kind  is  hinted  in 
Reynolds's  14th  Discourse  ;  but  nothing  can  be  more  false 
than  such  reasoning.  If  there  be  any  truth  or  beauty  in  the 
original  conception  of  the  spiritual  being  so  introduced,  there 
must  be  a  true  and  real  connection  between  that  abstract  idea* 

*  I  do  not  know  any  passage  in  ancient  literature  in  which  this  con- 
nection is  more  exquisitely  illustrated  than  in  the  lines,  burlesque  though 
they  be,  descriptive  of  the  approach  of  the  chorus  in  the  Clouds  of 
Aristophanes — a  writer,  by  the  way,  who,  I  believe,  knew  and  felt  more 
of  the  noble  landscape  character  of  his  country  than  any  whose  works 
have  come  down  to  us  except  Homer.  The  individuality  and  distinct- 
ness of  conception — the  visible  cloud  character  which  every  word  of 
this  particular  passage  brings  out  into  more  dewy  and  bright  existence, 
are  to  me  as  refreshing  as  the  real  breathing  of  mountain  winds.  The 
line  *  *  5ta  Twi/ KoiAwK  KaX  toou  5a(T6cyj/,  irxdyiai,^''  could  have  been  written 
by  none  but  an  ardent  lover  of  hill  scenery — one  who  had  watched, 
hour  after  hour,  the  peculiar  oblique,  side-long  action  of  descending 
clouds,  as  they  form  along  the  hollows  and  ravines  of  the  hills.  There 
are  no  lumpish  solidities — no  pillowy  protuberances  here.  All  is  melt- 
ing, drifting,  evanescent — full  of  air,  and  light,  and  dew. 


26 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


and  the  features  of  nature  as  she  was  and  is.  The  woods 
and  waters  which  were  peopled  by  the  Greek  with  typical 
life  were  not  different  from  those  which  now  wave  and  mur- 
mur by  the  ruins  of  his  shrines.  With  their  visible  and 
actual  forms  was  his  imagination  filled,  and  the  beauty  of  its 
incarnate  creatures  can  only  be  understood  among  the  pure 
realities  which  originally  modelled  their  conception.  If  di- 
vinity be  stamped  upon  the  features,  or  apparent  in  the  form 
of  the  spiritual  creature,  the  mind  will  not  be  shocked  by  its 
appearing  to  ride  upon  the  whirlwind,  and  trample  on  the 
storm  ;  but  if  mortality,  no  violation  of  the  characters  of  the 
earth  will  forge  one  single  link  to  bind  it  to  the  heaven. 

Is  there  then  no  such  thing  as  elevated  ideal  character  of 
landscape  ?  Undoubtedly;  and  Sir  Joshua,  with  the  great  mas- 
ter of  this  character,  Nicolo  Poussin,  present  to  his  thoughts, 
ought  to  have  arrived  at  more  true  conclusions  respecting  its 
essence  than,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  are  deducible  from 
his  works.  The  true  ideal  of  landscape  is  precisely  the  same 
as  that  of  the  human  form  ;  it  is  the  expression  of  the  spe- 
cific— not  the  individual,  but  the  specific — characters  of  every 
object,  in  their  perfection  ;  there  is  an  ideal  form  of  every 
herb,  flower,  and  tree:  it  is  that  form  to  which  every  indi- 
vidual of  the  species  has  a  tendency  to  arrive,  freed  from  the 
influence  of  accident  or  disease.  Every  landscape  painter 
should  know  the  specific  characters  of  every  object  he  has  to 
represent,  rock,  flower,  or  cloud  ;  and  in  his  highest  ideal 
works,  all  their  distinctions  will  be  perfectly  expressed, 
broadly  or  delicately,  slightly  or  completely,  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  subject,  and  the  degree  of  attention  which  is  to 
be  drawn  to  the  particular  object  by  the  part  it  plays  in  the 
composition.  Where  the  sublime  is  aimed  at,  such  distinc- 
tions will  be  indicated  with  severe  simplicity,  as  the  muscular 
markings  in  a  colossal  statue  ;  where  beauty  is  the  object, 
they  must  be  expressed  with  the  utmost  refinement  of  which 
the  hand  is  capable. 

This  may  sound  like  a  contradiction  of  principles  advanced 
by  the  highest  authorities;  but  it  is  only  a  contradiction  of 
a  particular  and  most  mistaken  a})plication  of  them.  Much 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


27 


evil  has  been  done  to  art  by  the  remarks  of  historical  painters 
on  landscape.  Accustomed  themselves  to  treat  their  back* 
grounds  slightly  and  boldly,  and  feeling  (though,  as  I  shall 
presently  show,  only  in  consequence  of  their  own  deficient 
powers)  that  any  approach  to  completeness  of  detail  therein, 
injures  their  picture  by  interfering  with  its  principal  subject, 
they  naturally  lose  sight  of  the  peculiar  and  intrinsic  beauties 
of  things  which  to  them  are  injurious,  unless  subordinate. 
Hence  the  frequent  advice  given  by  Reynolds  and  others,  to 
neglect  specific  form  in  landscape,  and  treat  its  materials  in 
large  masses,  aiming  only  at  general  truths, — the  flexibility 
of  foliage,  but  not  its  kind  ;  the  rigidity  of  rock,  but  not  its 
mineral  character.  In  the  passage  more  especially  bearing 
on  this  subject  (in  the  eleventh  lecture  of  Sir  J.  Reynolds), 
we  are  told  that  "  the  landscape  painter  works  not  for  the 
virtuoso  or  the  naturalist,  but  for  the  general  observer  of  life 
and  nature."  This  is  true,  in  precisely  the  same  sense  that 
the  sculptor  does  not  work  for  the  anatomist,  but  for  the 
common  observer  of  life  and  nature.  Yet  the  sculptor  is  not, 
for  this  reason,  permitted  to  be  wanting  either  in  knowledge 
or  expression  of  anatomical  detail;  and  the  more  refined  that 
expression  can  be  rendered,  the  more  perfect  is  his  work. 
That  which,  to  the  anatomist,  is  the  end, — is,  to  the  sculptor, 
the  means.  The  former  desires  details,  for  their  own  sake  ; 
the  latter,  that  by  means  of  them,  he  may  kindle  his  work 
with  life,  and  stamp  it  with  beauty.  And  so  in  landscape; — 
botanical  or  geological  details  are  not  to  be  given  as  matter 
of  curiosity  or  subject  of  search,  but  as  the  ultimate  elements 
of  every  species  of  expression  and  order  of  loveliness. 

In  his  observations  on  the  foreground  of  the  St.  Pietro 
Martire,  Sir  Joshua  advances,  as  matter  of  praise,  that  the 
plants  are  discriminated  "just  as  much  as  was  necessary  for 
variety,  and  no  more."  Had  this  foreground  been  occupied 
by  a  group  of  animals,  we  should  have  been  surprised  to  be 
told  that  the  lion,  the  serpent,  and  the  dove,  or  whatever 
other  creatures  might  have  been  introduced,  were  distin- 
guished  from  each  other  just  as  much  as  was  necessary  for 
variety,  and  no  more.    Yet  is  it  to  be  supposed  that  the 


28 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


distinctions  of  the  vegetable  world  are  less  complete,  less 
essential,  or  less  divine  in  origin,  than  those  of  the  animal  ? 
If  the  distinctive  forms  of  animal  life  are  meant  for  our 
reverent  observance,  is  it  likely  that  those  of  vegetable  life 
are  made  merely  to  be  swept  away  ?  The  latter  are  indeed 
less  obvious  and  less  obtrusive  ;  for  which  very  reason  there 
is  less  excuse  for  omitting  them,  because  there  is  less  danger 
of  their  disturbing  the  attention  or  engaging  the  fancy. 

But  Sir  Joshua  is  as  inaccurate  in  fact,  as  false  in  prin- 
ciple. He  himself  furnishes  a  most  singular  instance  of  the 
very  error  of  which  he  accuses  Vaseni, — the  seeing  what  he 
expects  ;  or,  rather,  in  the  present  case,  not  seeing  what  he 
does  not  expect.  The  great  masters  of  Italy,  almost  without 
exception,  and  Titian  perhaps  more  than  any  (for  he  had 
the  highest  knowledge  of  landscape),  are  in  the  constant 
habit  of  rendering  every  detail  of  their  foregrounds  with 
the  most  laborious  botanical  fidelity  :  witness  the  Bacchus 
and  Ariadne,"  in  which  the  foreground  is  occupied  by  the 
common  blue  iris,  the  aquilegia,  and  the  wild  rose  ;  every 
stamen  of  which  latter  is  given,  while  the  blossoms  and 
leaves  of  the  columbine  (a  difficult  flower  to  draw)  have 
been  studied  with  the  most  exquisite  accuracy.  The  fore- 
grounds of  Raffaelle's  two  cartoons — The  Miraculous 
Draught  of  Fishes  "  and  "  The  Charge  to  Peter  " — are  cov- 
ered with  plants  of  the  common  sea  colewort  {crambe  mari- 
tima),  of  which  the  sinuated  leaves  and  clustered  blossoms 
would  have  exhausted  the  patience  of  any  other  artist  ;  but 
have  appeared  worthy  of  prolonged  and  thoughtful  labor  to 
the  great  mind  of  Raffaelle. 

It  appears  then,  not  only  from  natural  principles,  but  from 
the  highest  of  all  authority,  that  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
lowest  details  is  necessary  and  full  expression  of  them  right, 
even  in  the  highest  class  of  historical  painting  ;  that  it  will 
not  take  away  from,  nor  interfere  with,  the  interest  of  the 
figures  ;  but,  rightly  managed,  must  add  to  and  elucidate  it  ; 
and,  if  further  proof  be  wanting,  I  would  desire  the  reader 
to  compare  the  background  of  Sir  Joshua's  "  Holy  Family," 
in  the  National  Gallery,  with  that  of   Nicolo  Poussin's 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITIONS  29 


"  Nursing  of  Jupiter,"  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery.  The  first, 
owing  to  the  utter  neglect  of  all  botanical  detail,  has  lost 
every  atom  of  ideal  character,  and  reminds  us  of  nothing 
but  an  English  fashionable  flower  garden  ; — the  formal  ped- 
estal adding  considerably  to  the  effect.  Poussin's,  in  which 
every  vine  leaf  is  drawn  with  consummate  skill  and  untiring 
diligence,  produces  not  only  a  tree  group  of  the  most  per- 
fect grace  and  beauty,  but  one  which,  in  its  pure  and  simple 
truth,  belongs  to  every  age  of  nature,  and  adapts  itself  to 
the  history  of  all  time.  If,  then,  such  entire  rendering  of 
specific  character  be  necessary  to  the  historical  painter,  in 
cases  where  these  lower  details  are  entirely  subordinate  to 
his  human  subject,  how  much  more  must  it  be  necessary  in 
landscape,  where  they  themselves  constitute  the  subject, 
and  where  the  undivided  attention  is  to  be  drawn  to  them. 

There  is  a  singular  sense  in  which  the  child  may  peculiarly 
be  said  to  be  father  of  the  man.  In  many  arts  and  attain- 
ments, the  first  and  last  stages  of  progress — the  infancy  and 
the  consummation — have  many  features  in  common  ;  while 
the  intermediate  stages  are  wholly  unlike  either,  and  are 
farthest  from  the  right.  Thus  it  is  in  the  progress  of  a 
painter's  handling.  We  see  the  perfect  child, — the  absolute 
beginner,  using  of  necessity  a  broken,  imperfect,  inadequate 
line,  which,  as  he  advances,  becomes  gradually  firm,  severe, 
and  decided.  Yet  before  he  becomes  a  perfect  artist,  this 
severity  and  decision  will  again  be  exchanged  for  a  light 
and  careless  stroke,  which  in  many  points  will  far  more 
resemble  that  of  his  childhood  than  of  his  middle  age — 
differing  from  it  only  by  the  consummate  effect  wrought 
out  by  the  apparently  inadequate  means.  So  it  is  in  many 
matters  of  opinion.  Our  first  and  last  coincide,  though 
on  different  grounds  ;  it  is  the  middle  stage  which  is  far- 
thest from  the  trutho  Childhood  often  holds  a  truth  with  its 
feeble  fingers,  which  the  grasp  of  manhood  cannot  retain, — 
which  it  is  the  pride  of  utmost  age  to  recover. 

Perhaps  this  is  in  no  instance  more  remarkable  than  in 
the  opinion  we  form  upon  the  subject  of  detail  in  works  of 
art.    Infants  in  judgment,  we  look  for  specific  character, 


30 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


and  complete  finish — we  delight  in  the  faithful  plumage  of 
the  well-known  bird — in  the  finely  drawn  leafage  of  the  dis- 
criminated flower.  As  we  advance  in  judgment^  we  scorn 
such  detail  altogether  ;  we  look  for  impetuosity  of  execu- 
tion, and  breadth  of  effect.  But,  perfected  in  judgment,  we 
return  in  a  great  measure  to  our  early  feelings,  and  thank 
Raffaelle  for  the  shells  upon  his  sacred  beach,  and  for  the 
delicate  stamens  of  the  herbage  beside  his  inspired  St. 
Catherine.* 

Of  those  who  take  interest  in  art,  nay,  even  of  artists 
themselves,  there  are  an  hundred  in  the  middle  stage  of 
judgment,  for  one  who  is  in  the  last  ;  and  this  not  because 
they  are  destitute  of  the  power  to  discover  or  the  sensibility 
to  enjoy  the  truth,  but  because  the  truth  bears  so  much 
semblance  of  error — the  last  stage  of  the  journey  to  the  first, 
— that  every  feeling  which  guides  to  it  is  checked  in  its 
origin.  The  rapid  and  powerful  artist  necessarily  looks 
with  such  contempt  on  those  who  seek  minutiae  of  detail 
rather  than  grandeur  of  impression,  that  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  him  to  conceive  of  the  great  last  step  in  art,  by 
which  both  become  compatible.  He  has  so  often  to  dash  the 
delicacy  out  of  the  pupil's  work,  and  to  blot  the  details 
from  his  encumbered  canvas  ;  so  frequently  to  lament  the 
loss  of  breadth  and  unity,  and  so  seldom  to  reprehend  the 
imperfection  of  minutse,  that  he  necessarily  looks  upon  com- 
plete parts  as  the  very  sign  of  error,  weakness  and  igno- 
rance. Thus,  frequently  to  the  latest  period  of  his  life,  he 
separates,  like  Sir  Joshua,  as  chief  enemies,  the  details  and 
the  whole,  which  an  artist  cannot  be  great  unless  he  recon- 
ciles ;  and  because  details  alone,  and  unreferred  to  a  final 
purpose,  are  the  sign  of  a  tyro's  work,  he  loses  sight  of  the 
remoter  truth,  that  details  perfect  in  unity,  and,  contribut-- 
ing  to  a  final  purpose,  are  the  sign  of  the  production  of  a 
consummate  master. 

*  Let  not  this  principle  be  confused  with  Fuseli's,  'Move  for  what 
is  called  deception  in  painting  marks  either  the  infancy  or  decrepitude 
of  a  nation's  taste."  Realization  to  the  mind  necessitates  not  decep- 
tion of  the  eye. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


31 


It  is  not,  therefore,  detail  sought  for  its  own  sake, — not 
the  calculable  bricks  of  the  Dutch  house-painters,  nor  the 
numbered  hairs  and  mapped  wrinkles  of  Denner,  which  con- 
stitute great  art, — they  are  the  lowest  and  most  contemptible 
art  ;  but  it  is  detail  referred  to  a  great  end, — sought  for  the  - 
sake  of  the  inestimable  beauty  which  exists  in  the  slightest 
and  least  of  God's  works,  and  treated  in  a  manly,  broad  and 
impressive  manner.  There  may  be  as  much  greatness  of 
mind,  as  much  nobility  of  manner  in  a  master's  treatment  of 
^he  smallest  features,  as  in  his  management  of  the  most 
vast;  and  this  greatness  of  manner  chiefly  consists  in  seizing 
ihe  specific  character  of  the  object,  together  with  all  the 
great  qualities  of  beauty  which  it  has  in  common  with  higher 
orders  of  existence,*  while  he  utterly  rejects  the  meaner 
oeauties  which  are  accidentally  peculiar  to  the  object,  and 
yet  not  specifically  characteristic  of  it.  I  cannot  give  a 
oetter  instance  than  the  painting  of  the  flowers  in  Titian's 
picture  above  mentioned.  While  every  stamen  of  the  rose 
s  given,  because  this  was  necessary  to  mark  the  flower,  and 
vvhile  the  curves  and  large  characters  of  the  leaves  are  ren- 
dered with  exquisite  fidelity,  there  is  no  vestige  of  particular 
texture,  of  moss,  bloom,  moisture,  or  any  other  accident — no 
iew-drops,  nor  flies,  nor  trickeries  of  any  kind  ;  nothing 
beyond  the  simple  forms  and  hues  of  the  flowers, — even 
those  hues  themselves  being  simplified  and  broadly  ren- 
dered. The  varieties  of  aquilegia  have,  in  reality,  a  grayish 
and  uncertain  tone  of  color  ;  and,  I  believe,  never  attain  the 
intense  purity  of  blue  with  which  Titian  has  gifted  his 
flower.  But  the  master  does  not  aim  at  the  particular  color 
of  individual  blossoms  ;  he  seizes  the  type  of  all,  and  gives 
it  with  the  utmost  purity  and  simplicity  of  which  color  is 
capable. 

These  laws  being  observed,  it  will  not  only  be  in  the  power, 
it  will  be  the  duty, — the  imperative  duty, — of  the  landscape 

*I  shall  show,  in  a  future  portion  of  the  work,  that  there  are 
principles  of  universal  beauty  common  to  all  the  creatures  of  God  ; 
and  that  it  is  by  the  greater  or  less  share  of  these  that  one  form  becomes 
nobler  or  meaner  than  another. 


32  PBEFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


painter,  to  descend  to  the  lowest  details  with  undiminished 
attention.  Every  herb  and  flower  of  the  field  has  its  specific, 
distinct,  and  perfect  beauty;  it  has  its  peculiar  habitation, 
expression  and  function.  The  highest  art  is  that  which  seizes 
this  specific  character,  which  develops  and  illustrates  it, 
which  assigns  to  it  its  proper  position  in  the  landscape,  and 
which,  by  means  of  it,  enhances  and  enforces  the  great  im- 
pression which  the  picture  is  intended  to  convey.  Nor  is  it 
of  herbs  and  flowers  alone  that  such  scientific  representation 
is  required.  Every  class  of  rock,  every  kind  of  earth,  every 
form  of  cloud,  must  be  studied  with  equal  industry,  and  ren- 
dered with  equal  precision.  And  thus  we  find  ourselves  un- 
avoidably led  to  a  conclusion  directly  opposed  to  that  con- 
stantly enunciated  dogma  of  the  parrot-critic,  that  the 
features  of  nature  must  be  generalized," — a  dogma  whose 
inherent  and  broad  absurdity  would  long  ago  have  been  de- 
tected, if  it  had  not  contained  in  its  convenient  falsehood  an 
apology  for  indolence,  and  a  disguise  for  incapacity.  Gen- 
eralized !  As  if  it  were  possible  to  generalize  things  gener- 
ically  different.  Of  such  common  cant  of  criticism  I  extract 
a  characteristic  passage  from  one  of  the  reviews  of  this  work, 
that  in  this  year's  Athenaeum  for  February  10th  :  ^'He  (the 
author)  would  have  geological  landscape  painters,  dendro- 
logic,  meteorologic,  and  doubtless  entomologic,  ichthyologic, 
every  kind  of  physiologic  painter  united  in  the  same  person; 
yet,  alas,  for  true  poetic  art  among  all  these  learned  The- 
bans  !  No;  landscape  painting  must  not  be  reduced  to  mere 
portraiture  of  inanimate  substances,  Denner-like  portraiture 
of  the  earth's  face.  *****  Ancient  landscapists 
took  a  broader,  deeper,  higher  view  of  their  art  ;  they  neg- 
lected particular  traits,  and  gave  only  general  features. 
Thus  they  attained  mass  and  force,  harmonious  union  and 
simple  effect,  the  elements  of  grandeur  and  beauty. 

To  all  such  criticism  as  this  (and  I  notice  it  only  because 
it  expresses  the  feelings  into  which  many  sensible  and 
thoughtful  minds  have  been  fashioned  by  infection)  the  an- 
swer is  simple  and  straightforward.  It  is  just  as  impossible 
to  generalize  granite  and  slate,  as  it  is  to  generalize  a  man 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION  33 


and  a  cow.  An  animal  must  be  either  one  animal  or  another 
animal ;  it  cannot  be  a  general  animal,  or  it  is  no  animal  ; 
and  so  a  rock  must  be  either  one  rock  or  another  rock  ;  it 
cannot  be  a  general  rock,  or  it  is  no  rock.  If  there  were  a 
creature  in  the  foreground  of  a  picture,  of  which  he  could 
not  decide  whether  it  were  a  pony  or  a  pig,  the  Athenaeum 
critic  would  perhaps  affirm  it  to  be  a  generalization  of  pony 
and  pig,  and  consequently  a  high  example  of  "  harmonious 
union  and  simple  effect."  But  I  should  call  it  simple  bad 
drawing.  And  so  when  there  are  things  in  the  foreground 
of  Salvator  of  which  I  cannot  pronounce  whether  they  be 
granite  or  slate,  or  tufa,  I  affirm  that  there  is  in  them  neither 
harmonious  union  nor  simple  effect,  but  simple  monstrosity. 
There  is  no  grandeur,  no  beauty  of  any  sort  or  kind  ;  nothing 
but  destruction,  disorganization,  and  ruin,  to  be  obtained  by 
the  violation  of  natural  distinctions.  The  elements  of  brutes 
can  only  mix  in  corruption,  the  elements  of  inorganic  nature 
only  in  annihilation.  We  may,  if  we  choose,  put  together 
centaur  monsters  ;  but  they  must  still  be  half  man,  half 
horse  ;  they  cannot  be  both  man  and  horse,  nor  either  man  or 
horse.  And  so,  if  landscape  painters  choose,  they  may  give 
us  rocks  which  shall  be  half  granite  and  half  slate  ;  but  they 
cannot  give  us  rocks  which  shall  be  either  granite  or  slate, 
nor  which  shall  be  both  granite  and  slate.  Every  attempt  to 
produce  that  which  shall  be  any  rock,  ends  in  the  production 
of  that  which  is  no  rock. 

It  is  true  that  the  distinctions  of  rocks  and  plants  and 
clouds  are  less  conspicuous,  and  less  constantly  subjects  of 
observation  than  those  of  the  animal  creation  ;  but  the  diffi- 
culty of  observing  them  proves  not  the  merit  of  overlooking 
them.  It  only  accounts  for  the  singular  fact,  that  the  world 
lias  never  yet  seen  anything  like  a  perfect  school  of  land- 
scape. For  just  as  the  highest  historical  painting  is  based 
on  perfect  knowledge  of  the  workings  of  the  human  form 
and  human  mind,  so  must  the  highest  landscape  painting  be 
based  on  perfect  cognizance  of  the  form,  functions,  and  sys- 
tem of  every  organic  or  definitely  structured  existence  which 
it  has  to  represent.  This  proposition  is  self-evident  to  every 
Vol.  I.— 3 


34 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


thinking  mind  ;  and  every  principle  which  appears  to  con- 
tradict it  is  either  misstated  or  misunderstood.  For  instance, 
the  Athenaeum  critic  calls  the  right  statement  of  generic 
difference  "  Denjier-WkQ  portraiture."  If  he  can  find  any- 
thing like  Denner  in  what  I  have  advanced  as  the  utmost 
perfection  of  landscape  art — the  recent  works  of  Turner — he 
is  welcome  to  his  discovery  and  his  theory.  No  ;  Denner-like 
portraiture  would  be  the  endeavor  to  paint  the  separate  crys- 
tals of  quartz  and  felspar  in  the  granite,  and  the  separate 
flakes  of  mica  in  the  mica  slate, — an  attempt  just  as  far  re- 
moved from  what  I  assert  to  be  great  art,  (the  bold  render- 
ing of  the  generic  characters  of  form  in  both  rocks,)  as  mod- 
ern sculpture  of  lace  and  button-holes  is  from  the  Elgin  mar- 
bles. Martin  has  attempted  this  Denner-like  portraiture  of 
sea-foam  with  the  assistance  of  an  acre  of  canvas — with  what 
success,  I  believe  the  critics  of  his  last  year's  Canute  had,  for 
once,  sense  enough  to  decide. 

Again,  it  does  not  follow  that  because  such  accurate  knowl- 
edge is  necessary  to  the  painter  that  it  should  constitute  the 
painter,  nor  that  such  knowledge  is  valuable  in  itself,  and 
without  reference  to  high  ends.  Every  kind  of  knowledge 
may  be  sought  from  ignoble  motives,  and  for  ignoble  ends  ; 
and  in  those  who  so  possess  it,  it  is  ignoble  knowledge  ;  while 
the  very  same  knowledge  is  in  another  mind  an  attainment 
of  the  highest  dignity,  and  conveying  the  greatest  blessing. 
This  is  the  difference  between  the  mere  botanist's  knowledge 
of  plants,  and  the  great  poet's  or  painter's  knowledge  of  them. 
The  one  notes  their  distinctions  for  the  sake  of  swelling  his 
herbarium,  the  other,  that  he  may  render  them  vehicles  of 
expression  and  emotion.  The  one  counts  the  stamens,  and 
affixes  a  name,  and  is  content  ;  the  other  observes  every 
character  of  the  plant's  color  and  form  ;  considering  each  of 
its  attributes  as  an  element  of  expression,  he  seizes  on  its 
lines  of  grace  or  energy,  rigidity  or  repose  ;  notes  the  feeble- 
ness or  the  vigor,  the  serenity  or  tremulousness  of  its  hues  ; 
observes  its  local  habits,  its  love  or  fear  of  peculiar  places,  its 
nourishment  or  destruction  by  particular  influences  ;  he 
associates  it  in  his  mind  with  all  the  features  of  the  situa- 


PBEFAGE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION.  35 


tions  it  inhabits,  and  the  fninistering  agencies  necessary  to 
its  support.  Thenceforward  the  flower  is  to  him  a  living 
creature,  with  histories  written  on  its  leaves,  and  passions 
breathing  in  its  motion.  Its  occurrence  in  his  picture  is  no 
mere  point  of  color,  no  meaningless  spark  of  light.  It  is  a 
voice  rising  from  the  earth, — a  new  chord  of  the  mind's 
music, — a  necessary  note  in  the  harmony  of  his  picture,  con- 
tributing alike  to  its  tenderness  and  its  dignity,  nor  less  to 
its  loveliness  than  its  truth. 

The  particularization  of  flowers  by  Shakspeare  and  Shelley 
affords  us  the  most  frequent  examples  of  the  exalted  use  of 
these  inferior  details.  It  is  true  that  the  painter  has  not  the 
same  power  of  expressing  the  thoughts  with  which  his  symbols 
are  connected  ;  he  is  dependent  in  some  degree  on  the  knowl- 
edge and  feeling  of  the  spectator  ;  but,  by  the  destruction  of 
such  details,  his  foreground  is  not  rendered  more  intelligible 
to  the  ignorant,  although  it  ceases  to  have  interest  for  the 
informed.  It  is  no  excuse  for  illegible  writing  that  there  are 
persons  who  could  not  have  read  it  had  it  been  plain. 

I  repeat  then,  generalization,  as  the  word  is  commonly 
understood,  is  the  act  of  a  vulgar,  incapable,  and  unthinking 
mind.  To  see  in  all  mountains  nothing  but  similar  heaps  of 
earth  ;  in  all  rocks,  nothing  but  similar  concretions  of  solid 
matter  ;  in  all  trees,  nothing  but  similar  accumulations  of 
leaves,  is  no  sign  of  high  feeling  or  extended  thought.  The 
more  we  know,  and  the  more  we  feel,  the  more  we  separate  ; 
we  separate  to  obtain  a  more  perfect  unity.  Stones,  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  peasant,  lie  as  they  do  on  his  field,  one  is  like 
another,  and  there  is  no  connection  between  any  of  them. 
The  geologist  distinguishes,  and  in  distinguishing  connects 
them.  Each  becomes  different  from  its  fellow,  but  in  differ- 
ing from,  assumes  a  relation  to  its  fellow  ;  they  are  no  more 
each  the  repetition  of  the  other, — they  are  parts  of  a  system, 
and  each  implies  and  is  connected  with  the  existence  of  the 
rest.  That  generalization  then  is  right,  true,  and  noble, 
which  is  based  on  the  knowledge  of  the  distinctions  and  ob- 
servance of  the  relations  of  individual  kinds.  That  general- 
ization is  wrong,  false,  and  contemptible,  which  is  based  on 


36  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


ignorance  of  the  one,  and  disturbance  of  the  other.  It  is 
indeed  no  generalization,  but  confusion  and  chaos  ;  it  is  the 
generalization  of  a  defeated  army  into  indistinguishable  im- 
potence— the  generalization  of  the  elements  of  a  dead  carcass 
into  dust. 

Let  us,  then,  without  farther  notice  of  the  dogmata  of  the 
schools  of  art,  follow  forth  those  conclusions  to  which  we  are 
led  by  observance  of  the  laws  of  nature. 

I  have  just  said  that  every  class  of  rock,  earth  and  cloud, 
must  be  known  by  the  painter,  with  geologic  and  meteoro- 
logic  accuracy.*  Nor  is  this  merely  for  the  sake  of  obtain- 
ing the  character  of  these  minor  features  themselves,  but 
more  especially  for  the  sake  of  reaching  that  simple,  earnest, 
and  consistent  character  which  is  visible  in  the  whole  effect 
of  every  natural  landscape.  Every  geological  formation  has 
features  entirely  peculiar  to  itself ;  definite  lines  of  fracture, 
giving  rise  to  fixed  resultant  forms  oi  rock  and  earth  ;  pe- 
culiar vegetable  products,  among  which  still  farther  distinc- 
tions are  wrought  out  by  variations  of  climate  and  elevation. 
From  such  modifying  circumstances  arise  the  infinite  varie- 
ties of  the  orders  of  landscape,  of  which  each  one  shows  per- 
fect harmony  among  its  several  features,  and  possesses  an 
ideal  beauty  of  its  own  ;  a  beauty  not  distinguished  merely 
by  such  peculiarities  as  are  wrought  on  the  human  form  by 
change  of  climate,  but  by  generic  differences  the  most 
marked  and  essential  ;  so  that  its  classes  cannot  be  general- 
ized or  amalgamated  by  any  expedients  whatsoever.  The 

*  Is  not  this — it  may  be  asked — demanding  more  from  him  than  life 
can  accomplish?  Not  one  whit.  Nothing  more  than  knowledge  of 
external  characteristics  is  absolutely  required  ;  and  even  if,  which  were 
more  desirable,  thorough  scientific  knowledge  had  to  be  attained,  the 
time  which  our  artists  spend  in  multiplying  crude  sketches,  or  finishincr 
their  unintelligent  embryos  of  the  study,  would  render  them  masters  of 
every  science  that  modern  investigations  have  organized,  and  familiar 
with  every  form  that  Nature  manifests.  Martin,  if  the  time  which  he 
must  have  spent  on  the  abortive  bubbles  of  his  Canute  had  been  passed 
in  working  on  the  seashore,  might  have  learned  enough  to  enable  him 
to  produce,  with  a  few  strokes,  a  picture  which  would  have  smote  like 
the  sound  of  the  sua,  upon  men*s  hearts  forever. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  Zf 


level  marshes  and  rich  meadows  of  the  tertiary,  the  rounded 
swells  and  short  pastures  of  the  chalk,  the  square-built  cliffs 
and  cloven  dells  of  the  lower  limestone,  the  soaring  peaks 
and  ridgy  precipices  of  the  primaries,  having  nothing  in 
common  among  them — nothing  which  is  not  distinctive  and 
incommunicable.  Their  very  atmospheres  are  different — 
their  clouds  are  different — their  humors  of  storm  and  sun- 
shine are  different — their  flowers,  animals  and  forests  are 
different.  By  each  order  of  landscape — and  its  orders,  I 
repeat,  are  infinite  in  number,  corresponding  not  only  to 
the  several  species  of  rock,  but  to  the  particular  circum- 
stances of  the  rocks'  deposition  or  after  treatment,  and  to 
the  incalculable  varieties  of  climate,  aspect,  and  human 
interference  : — by  each  order  of  landscape,  I  say,  peculiar 
lessons  are  intended  to  be  taught,  and  distinct  pleasures  to 
be  conveyed  ;  and  it  is  as  utterly  futile  to  talk  of  general- 
izing their  impressions  into  an  ideal  landscape,  as  to  talk  of 
amalgamating  all  nourishment  into  one  ideal  food,  gathering 
all  music  into  one  ideal  movement,  or  confounding  all  thought 
into  one  ideal  idea. 

There  is,  however,  such  a  thing  as  composition  of  different 
orders  of  landscape,  though  there  can  be  no  generalization  of 
them.  Nature  herself  perpetually  brings  together  elements 
of  various  expression.  Her  barren  rocks  stoop  through 
wooded  promontories  to  the  plain  ;  and  the  wreaths  of  the 
vine  show  through  their  green  shadows  the  wan  light  of  un- 
perishing  snow. 

The  painter,  therefore,  has  the  choice  of  either  working 
out  the  isolated  character  of  some  one  distinct  class  of  scene, 
or  of  bringing  together  a  multitude  of  different  elements, 
which  may  adorn  each  other  by  contrast. 

I  believe  that  the  simple  and  uncombined  landscape,  if 
wrought  out  with  due  attention  to  the  ideal  beauty  of  the 
features  it  includes,  will  always  be  the  most  powerful  in  its 
appeal  to  the  heart.  Contrast  increases  the  splendor  of 
beauty,  but  it  disturbs  its  influence  ;  it  adds  to  its  attractive- 
ness, but  diminishes  its  power.  On  this  subject  I  shall  have 
much  to  say  hereafter  ;  at  present  I  merely  wish  to  suggest 


m 

38  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

the  possibility,  that  the  single-minded  painter,  who  is  work- 
ing out  on  broad  and  simple  principles,  a  piece  of  unbroken, 
harmonious  landscape  character,  may  be  reaching  an  end  in 
art  quite  as  high  as  the  more  ambitious  student  who  is  always 

within  fiv^e  minutes'  walk  of  everywhere,"  making  the  ends 
of  the  earth  contribute  to  his  pictorial  guazzetto  ;  *  and  the 
certainty,  that  unless  the  composition  of  the  latter  be  regu- 
lated by  severe  judgment,  and  its  members  connected  by 
natural  links,  it  must  become  more  contemptible  in  its  mot- 
ley, than  an  honest  study  of  road-side  weeds. 

Let  me,  at  the  risk  of  tediously  repeating  what  is  univer- 
sally known,  refer  to  the  common  principles  of  historical 
composition,  in  order  that  I  may  show  their  application  to 
that  of  landscape.  The  merest  tyro  in  art  knows  that  every 
figure  which  is  unnecessary  to  his  picture,  is  an  encumbrance 
to  it,  and  that  every  figure  which  does  not  sympathize  with 
the  action,  interrupts  it.  He  that  gathereth  not  with  me, 
scattereth, — is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  ruling  principle  of  his 
plan  :  and  the  power  and  grandeur  of  his  result  will  be  ex- 
actly proportioned  to  the  unity  of  feeling  manifested  in  its 
several  parts,  and  to  the  propriety  and  simplicity  of  the  rela- 
tions in  which  they  stand  to  each  other. 

All  this  is  equally  applicable  to  the  materials  of  inanimate 
nature.  Impressiveness  is  destroyed  by  a  multitude  of  con- 
tradictory facts,  and  the  accumulation,  which  is  not  harmo- 
nious, is  discordant.  He  who  endeavors  to  unite  simplicity 
with  magnificence,  to  guide  from  solitude  to  festivity,  and 
to  contrast  melancholy  with  mirth,  must  end  by  the  produc- 
tion of  confused  inanity.  There  is  a  peculiar  spirit  possessed 
by  every  kind  of  scene  ;  and  although  a  point  of  contrast 
may  sometimes  enhance  and  exhibit  this  particular  feeling 
more  intensely,  it  must  be  only  a  point,  not  an  equalized 
opposition.  Every  introduction  of  new  and  different  feel- 
ing weakens  the  force  of  what  has  already  been  impressed, 

*  *  *  A  ^een  field  is  a  sight  which  makes  us  pardon 
The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construction 
Which  mixes  up  vines,  olive,  precipices, 
Glaciers,  volcanoes,  oranges,  and  ices.'' — Don  Juan, 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  39 


and  the  mingling  of  all  emotions  must  conclude  in  apathy, 
as  the  mingling  of  all  colors  in  white. 

Let  us  test  by  these  simple  rules  one  of  the  ''ideal "  land- 
scape compositions  of  Claude,  that  known  to  the  Italians  as 
"II  Mulino." 

The  foreground  is  a  piece  of  very  lovely  and  perfect  forest 
scenery,  with  a  dance  of  peasants  by  a  brookside  ;  quite 
enough  subject  to  form,  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  an  im- 
pressive and  complete  picture.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
brook,  however,  we  have  a  piece  of  pastoral  life,  a  man  with 
some  bulls  and  goats  tumbling  headforemost  into  the  water, 
owing  to  some  sudden  paralytic  affection  of  all  their  legs. 
Even  this  group  is  one  too  many  ;  the  shepherd  had  no 
business  to  drive  his  flock  so  near  the  dancers,  and  the  dan- 
cers will  certainly  frighten  the  cattle.  But  w^ien  we  look 
farther  into  the  picture,  our  feelings  receive  a  sudden  and 
violent  shock,  by  the  unexpected  appearance,  amidst  things 
pastoral  and  musical,  of  the  military  :  a  number  of  Roman 
soldiers  riding  in  on  hobby-horses,  with  a  leader  on  foot,  ap- 
parently encouraging  them  to  make  an  immediate  and  decisive 
charge  on  the  musicians.  Beyond  the  soldiers  is  a  circular 
temple,  in  exceedingly  bad  repair,  and  close  beside  it,  built 
against  its  very  walls,  a  neat  water-mill  in  full  work.  By 
the  mill  flows  a  large  river,  with  a  weir  all  across  it.  The 
weir  has  not  been  made  for  the  mill,  (for  that  receives  its 
water  from  the  hills  by  a  trough  carried  over  the  temple,) 
but  it  is  particularly  ugly  and  monotonous  in  its  line  of  fall, 
and  the  water  below  forms  a  dead-looking  pond,  on  which 
some  people  are  fishing  in  punts.  The  banks  of  this  river 
resemble  in  contour  the  later  geological  formations  around 
London,  constituted  chiefly  of  broken  pots  and  oyster-shells. 
At  an  inconvenient  distance  from  the  water-side  stands  a 
city,  composed  of  twenty-five  round  towers  and  a  pyramid. 
Beyond  the  city  is  a  handsome  bridge  ;  beyond  the  bridge, 
part  of  the  Campagna,  with  fragments  of  aqueducts  ;  be- 
yond the  Campagna,  the  chain  of  the  Alps  ;  on  the  left,  the 
cascades  of  Tivoli. 

This  is,  I  believe,  a  fair  example  of  what  is  commonly 


40 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


called  an  "ideal  landscape,"  a  group  of  the  artist's 
studies  from  nature,  individually  spoiled,  selected  with  such 
opposition  of  character  as  may  insure  their  neutralizing  each 
other's  effect,  and  united  with  sufficient  unnaturalness  and 
violence  of  association  to  insure  their  producing  a  general 
sensation  of  the  impossible.  Let  us  analyze  the  separate 
subjects  a  little  in  this  ideal  work  of  Claude's. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  more  impressive  scene  on  earth  than 
the  solitary  extent  of  the  Campagna  of  Rome  under  even- 
ing light.  Let  the  reader  imagine  himself  for  a  moment 
withdrawn  from  the  sounds  and  motion  of  the  living  world, 
and  sent  forth  alone  into  this  wild  and  wasted  plain.  The 
earth  yields  and  crumbles  beneath  his  foot,  tread  he  never 
so  lightly,  for  its  substance  is  white,  hollow,  and  carious, 
like  the  dusty  wreck  of  the  bones  of  men.*  The  long  knot- 
ted grass  waves  and  tosses  feebly  in  the  evening  wind,  and 
the  shadows  of  its  motion  shake  feverishly  along  the  banks 
of  ruin  that  lift  themselves  to  the  sunlight.  Hillocks  of 
mouldering  earth  heave  around  him,  as  if  the  dead  beneath 
were  struggling  in  their  sleep  ;  scattered  blocks  of  black 
stone,  four-square,  remnants  of  mighty  edifices,  not  one  left 
upon  another,  lie  upon  them  to  keep  them  down.  A  dull 
purple,  poisonous  haze  stretches  level  along  the  desert,  veil- 
ing its  spectral  wrecks  of  massy  ruins,  on  whose  rents  the 
red  light  rests  like  dying  fire  on  defiled  altars.  The  blue 
ridge  of  the  Alban  mount  lifts  itself  against  a  solemn  space 
of  green,  clear,  quiet  sky.  Watch-towers  of  dark  clouds 
stand  steadfastly  along  the  promontories  of  the  Apennines. 
From  the  plain  to  the  mountains,  the  shattered  aqueducts,  pier 
beyond  pier^  melt  into  the  darkness,  like  shadowy  and  count- 
less troops  of  funeral  mourners,  passing  from  a  nation's 
grave. 

Let  us,  with  Claude,  make  a  few  "  ideal  "  alterations  in 
this  landscape.  First,  we  will  reduce  the  multitudinous 
pro3cipices  of  the  Apennines  to  four  sugar-loaves.  Secondly, 

*  The  vegetable  soil  of  the  Campagna  is  chiefly  formed  by  decom- 
posed lavas,  and  under  it  lies  a  bed  of  white  pumice,  exactly  resem- 
bling remnants  of  bones. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION.  41 


we  will  remove  the  Alban  mount,  and  put  a  large  dust-heap 
in  its  stead.  Next,  we  will  knock  down  the  greater  part  of 
the  aqueducts,  and  leave  only  an  arch  or  two,  that  their 
infinity  of  length  may  no  longer  be  painful  from  its  monot- 
ony. For  the  purple  mist  and  declining  sun  we  will  sub- 
stitute a  bright  blue  sky,  with  round  white  clouds.  Finally, 
we  will  get  rid  of  the  unpleasant  ruins  in  the  foreground  ; 
we  will  plant  some  handsome  trees  therein,  we  will  send  for 
some  fiddlers,  and  get  up  a  dance,  and  a  picnic  party. 

It  will  be  found,  throughout  the  picture,  that  the  same 
species  of  improvement  is  made  on  the  materials  which 
Claude  had  ready  to  his  hand.  The  descending  slopes  of 
the  city  of  Rome,  towards  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius, 
supply  not  only  lines  of  the  most  exquisite  variety  and 
beauty,  but  matter  for  contemplation  and  reflection  in  every 
fragment  of  their  buildings.  This  passage  has  been  ideal- 
ized by  Claude  into  a  set  of  similar  round  towers,  respecting 
which  no  idea  can  be  formed  but  that  they  are  uninhabit- 
able, and  to  which  no  interest  can  be  attached,  beyond  the 
difficulty  of  conjecturing  what  they  could  have  been  built 
for.  The  ruins  of  the  temple  are  rendered  unimpressive  by 
the  juxtaposition  of  the  water-mill,  and  inexplicable  by  the 
introduction  of  the  Roman  soldiers.  The  glide  of  the 
muddy  streams  of  the  melancholy  Tiber  and  Anio  through 
the  Campagna  is  impressive  in  itself,  but  altogether  ceases 
to  be  so,  when  we  disturb  their  stillness  of  motion  by  a  weir, 
adorn  their  neglected  flow  with  a  handsome  bridge,  and 
cover  their  solitary  surface  with  punts,  nets,  and  fishermen. 

It  cannot,  I  think,  be  expected,  that  landscapes  like  this 
should  have  any  effect  on  the  human  heart,  except  to  harden 
or  to  degrade  it  ;  to  lead  it  from  the  love  of  what  is  simple, 
earnest  and  pure,  to  what  is  as  sophisticated  and  corrupt  in 
arrangement  as  erring  and  imperfect  in  detail.  So  long  as 
such  works  are  held  up  for  imitation,  landscape  painting 
must  be  a  manufacture,  its  productions  must  be  toys,  and 
its  patrons  must  be  children. 

My  purpose  then,  in  the  present  work,  is  to  demonstrate 
the  utter  falseness  both  of  the  facts  and  principles  ;  the 


42 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


imperfection  of  material,  and  error  of  arrangement,  on  which 
works  such  as  these  are  based  ;  and  to  insist  on  the  neces- 
sity, as  well  as  the  dignity,  of  an  earnest,  faithful,  loving, 
study  of  nature  as  she  is,  rejecting  with  abhorrence  all  that 
man  has  done  to  alter  and  modify  her.  And  the  praise 
which,  in  this  first  portion  of  the  work,  is  given  to  many 
English  artists,  would  be  justifiable  on  this  ground  onlv, 
that  although  frequently  with  little  power  and  desultory 
effort,  they  have  yet,  in  an  honest  and  good  heart,  received 
the  word  of  God  from  clouds,  and  leaves,  and  waves,  and 
kept  it,*  and  endeavored  in  humility  to  render  to  the  world 
that  purity  of  impression  which  can  alone  render  the  result 

*  The  feelings  of  Constable  with  respect  to  his  art  might  be  almost 
a  model  for  the  young  student,  were  it  not  that  they  err  a  little  on  the 
other  side,  and  are  perhaps  in  need  of  chastening  and  guiding  from 
the  works  of  his  fellow-men.  We  should  use  pictures  not  as  authori- 
ties, but  as  comments  on  nature,  just  as  we  use  divines,  not  as  authori- 
ties, but  as  comments  on  the  Bible.  Constable,  in  his  dread  of  saint- 
worship,  excommunicates  himself  from  all  benefit  of  the  Church,  and 
deprives  himself  of  much  instruction  from  the  Scripture  to  which  he 
holds,  because  he  will  not  accept  aid  in  the  reading  of  it  from  the 
learning  of  other  men.  Sir  George  Beaumont,  on  the  contrary,  fur- 
nishes, in  the  anecdotes  given  of  him  in  Constable's  life,  a  melancholy 
instance  of  the  degradation  into  which  the  human  mind  may  fall,  when 
it  suffers  human  works  to  interfere  between  it  and  its  Master.  The 
recommending  the  color  of  an  old  Cremona  fiddle  for  the  prevailing 
tone  of  everything,  and  the  vapid  inquiry  of  the  conventionalist, 

Where  do  you  put  your  brown  tree  ?  "  show  a  prostration  of  intellect 
BO  laughable  and  lamentable  that  they  are  at  once,  on  all,  and  to  all, 
students  of  the  gallery,  a  satire  and  a  warning.  Art  so  followed  is  the 
most  servile  indolence  in  which  life  can  be  wasted.  There  are  then 
two  dangerous  extremes  to  be  shunned, — forgetfulness  of  the  Scripture, 
and  scorn  of  the  divine— slavery  on  the  one  hand,  free-thinking  on  the 
other.  The  mean  is  nearly  as  difficult  to  determine  or  keep  in  art  as 
in  religion,  but  the  great  danger  is  on  the  side  of  superstition.  He 
who  walks  humbly  with  Nature  will  seldom  be  in  danger  of  losing  sight 
of  Art.  He  will  commonly  find  in  all  that  is  truly  great  of  man's 
works,  something  of  their  original,  for  which  he  will  regard  them  with 
gratitude,  and  sometimes  follow  them  with  respect ;  while  he  who 
takes  Art  for  his  authority  may  entirely  lose  sight  of  all  that  it  inter- 
prets, and  sink  at  once  into  the  sin  of  an  idolater,  and  the  degradation 
of  a  slave. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION, 


43 


of  art  an  instrument  of  good,  or  its  labor  deserving  of  grati- 
tude. 

If,  however,  I  shall  have  frequent  occasion  to  insist  on 
the  necessity  of  this  heartfelt  love  of,  and  unqualified  sub- 
mission to,  the  teaching  of  nature,  it  will  be  no  less  incum- 
bent upon  me  to  reprobate  the  careless  rendering  of  casual 
impression,  and  the  mechanical  copyism  of  unimportant  sub- 
ject, which  are  too  frequently  visible  in  our  modern  school.* 
Their  lightness  and  desultoriness  of  intention,  their  mean- 

*  I  should  have  insisted  more  on  this  fault  (for  it  is  a  fatal  one)  in 
the  following  Essay,  but  the  cause  of  it  rests  rather  with  the  public 
than  with  the  artist,  and  in  the  necessities  of  the  public  as  much  as  in 
their  will.  Such  pictures  as  artists  themselves  would  wish  to  paint, 
could  not  be  executed  under  very  high  prices ;  and  it  must  always  be 
easier,  in  the  present  state  of  society,  to  find  ten  purchasers  of  ten- 
guinea  sketches,  than  one  purchaser  for  a  hundred-guinea  picture. 
Still,  I  have  been  often  both  surprised  and  grieved  to  see  that  any 
effort  on  the  part  of  our  artists  to  rise  above  manufacture — any  strug- 
gle to  something  like  completed  conception — was  left  by  the  public  to 
be  its  own  reward.  In  the  water-color  exhibition  of  last  year  there 
was  a  noble  work  of  David  Cox's,  ideal  in  the  right  sense — a  forest  hol- 
low with  a  few  sheep  crushing  down  through  its  deep  fern,  and  a  solemn 
opening  of  evening  sky  above  its  dark  masses  of  distance.  It  was 
worth  all  his  little  bits  on  the  walls  put  together.  Yet  the  public  picked 
up  all  the  little  bits — blots  and  splashes,  ducks,  chickweed,  ears  of 
com — all  that  was  clever  and  petite  ;  and  the  real  picture — the  full 
development  of  the  artist's  mind — was  left  on  his  hands.  How  can  I, 
or  any  one  else,  with  a  conscience,  advise  him  after  this  to  aim  at  any- 
thing more  than  may  be  struck  out  by  the  cleverness  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Cattermole,  I  believe,  is  earthed  and  shackled  in  the  same 
manner.  He  began  his  career  with  finished  and  studied  pictures, 
which,  I  believe,  never  paid  him — he  now  prostitutes  his  fine  talent  to 
the  super ficialn ess  of  public  taste,  and  blots  his  way  to  emolument  and 
oblivion.  There  is  commonly,  however,  fault  on  both  sides  ;  in  the  ar- 
tist for  exhibiting  his  dexterity  by  mountebank  tricks  of  the  brush, 
until  chaste  finish,  requiring  ten  times  the  knowledge  and  labor,  ap- 
pears insipid  to  the  diseased  taste  which  he  has  himself  formed  in  his 
patrons,  as  the  roaring  and  ranting  of  a  common  actor  will  oftentimes 
render  apparently  vapid  the  finished  touches  of  perfect  nature ;  and  in 
the  public,  for  taking  less  real  pains  to  become  acquainted  with,  and 
discriminate,  the  various  powers  of  a  great  artist,  than  they  would  to 
estimate  the  excellence  of  a  cook  or  develop  the  dexterity  of  a  dancer. 


M  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


ingless  multiplication  of  unstudied  composition,  and  their 
want  of  definiteness  and  loftiness  of  aim,  bring  discredit  on 
their  whole  system  of  study,  and  encourage  in  t>he  critic  the 
unhappy  prejudice  that  the  field  and  the  hill-side  are  less  fit 
places  of  study  than  the  gallery  and  the  garret.  Not  every 
casual  idea  caught  from  the  flight  of  a  shower  or  the  fall  of 
a  sunbeam,  not  every  glowing  fragment  of  harvest  light,  nor 
every  flickering  dream  of  copsewood  coolness,  is  to  be  given 
to  the  world  as  it  came,  unconsidered,  incomplete,  and  for- 
gotten by  the  artist  as  soon  as  it  has  left  his  easel.  That 
only  should  be  considered  a  picture,  in  which  the  spirit,  (not 
the  materials,  observe,)  but  the  animating  emotion  of  many 
such  studies  is  concentrated,  and  exhibited  by  the  aid  of 
long-studied,  painfully-chosen,  forms;  idealized  in  the  right 
sense  of  the  word,  not  by  audacious  liberty  of  that  faculty 
of  degrading  God's  works  which  man  calls  his  "  imagina- 
tion," but  by  perfect  assertion  of  entire  knowledge  of  every 
part  and  character  and  function  of  the  object,  and  in  which 
the  details  are  completed  to  the  last  line  compatible  with  the 
dignity  and  simplicity  of  the  whole,  wrought  out  with  that 
noblest  industry  which  concentrates  profusion  into  point, 
and  transforms  accumulation  into  structure  ;  neither  must 
this  labor  be  bestowed  on  every  subject  which  appears  to 
afford  a  capability  of  good,  but  on  chosen  subjects  in  which 
nature  has  prepared  to  the  artist's  hand  the  purest  sources 
of  the  impression  he  would  convey.  These  may  be  humble 
in  their  order,  but  they  must  be  perfect  of  their  kind.  There 
is  a  perfection  of  the  hedgerow  and  cottage,  as  well  as  of  the 
forest  and  the  palace,  and  more  ideality  in  a  great  artist's 
selection  and  treatment  of  roadside  weeds  and  brook-worn 
pebbles,  than  in  all  the  struggling  caricature  of  the  meaner 
mind  which  heaps  its  foreground  with  colossal  columns,  and 
heaves  impossible  mountains  into  the  encumbered  sky. 
Finally,  these  chosen  subjects  must  not  be  in  any  way  repeti- 
tions of  one  another,  but  each  founded  on  a  new  idea,  and 
developing  a  totally  distinct  train  of  thought;  so  that  the 
work  of  the  artist's  life  should  form  a  consistent  series  of 
essays,  rising  through  the  scale  of  creation  from  the  hum- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  45 


blest  scenery  to  the  most  exalted;  each  picture  being  a  nec- 
essary link  in  the  chain,  based  on  what  preceded,  introduc- 
ing to  what  is  to  follow,  and  all,  in  their  lovely  system, 
exhibiting  and  drawing  closer  the  bonds  of  nature  to  the 
human  heart. 

Since,  then,  I  shall  have  to  reprobate  the  absence  of  study 
in  the  moderns  nearly  as  much  as  its  false  direction  in  the 
ancients,  my  task  will  naturally  divide  itself  into  three  por- 
tions. In  the^  first,  I  shall  endeavor  to  investigate  and  ar- 
range the  facts  of  nature  with  scientific  accuracy  ;  showing 
as  I  proceed,  by  what  total  neglect  of  the  very  first  base  and 
groundwork  of  their  art  the  idealities  of  some  among  the  old 
masters  are  produced.  This  foundation  once  securely  laid,  I 
shall  proceed,  in  the  second  portion  of  the  work,  to  analyze 
and  demonstrate  the  nature  of  the  emotions  of  the  Beautiful 
and  Sublime;  to  examine  the  particular  characters  of  every 
kind  of  scenery,  and  to  bring  to  light,  as  far  as  may  be  in 
my  power,  that  faultless,  ceaseless,  inconceivable,  inexhaust- 
ible loveliness,  which  God  has  stamped  upon  all  things,  if 
man  will  only  receive  them  as  He  gives  them.  Finally,  I 
shall  endeavor  to  trace  the  operation  of  all  this  on  the  hearts 
and  minds  of  men;  to  exhibit  the  moral  function  and  end  of 
art,  to  prove  the  share  which  it  ought  to  have  in  the  thoughts, 
and  influence  on  the  lives  of  all  of  us;  to  attach  to  the  artist 
the  responsibility  of  a  preacher,  and  to  kindle  in  the  general 
mind  that  regard  which  such  an  ofiice  must  demand. 

It  must  be  evident  that  the  first  portion  of  this  task,  which 
is  all  that  I  have  yet  been  enabled  to  offer  to  the  reader,  can- 
not but  be  the  least  interesting  and  the  most  laborious,  es- 
pecially because  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be  executed 
without  reference  to  any  principles  of  beauty  or  influences  of 
emotion.  It  is  the  hard,  straightforward  classification  of 
material  things,  not  the  study  of  thought  or  passion;  and 
therefore  let  me  not  be  accused  of  the  feelings  which  I  choose 
to  repress.  The  consideration  of  the  high  qualities  of  art 
must  not  be  interrupted  by  the  work  of  the  hammer  and  the 
eudiometer. 

Again,  I  would  request  that  the  frequent  passages  of 


46  PBEFAGE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 


reference  to  the  great  masters  of  the  Italian  school  may  not 
be  looked  upon  as  mere  modes  of  conventional  expression. 
I  think  there  is  enough  in  the  following  pages  to  prove  that 
I  am  not  likely  to  be  carried  away  by  the  celebrity  of  a  name; 
and  therefore  that  the  devoted  love  which  1  profess  for  the 
works  of  the  great  historical  and  sacred  painters  is  sincere 
and  well-grounded.  And  indeed  every  principle  of  art  which 
I  may  advocate,  I  shall  be  able  to  illustrate  by  reference  to 
the  works  of  men  universally  allowed  to  be  the  masters  of 
masters;  and  the  public,  so  long  as  my  teaching  leads  them 
to  higher  understanding  and  love  of  the  works  of  Buonaroti, 
Leonardo,  Raffaelle,  Titian,  and  Cagliari,  may  surely  concede 
to  me  without  fear,  the  right  of  striking  such  blows  as  I  may 
deem  necessary  to  the  establishment  of  my  principles,  at 
Gasper  Poussin,  or  Yandevelde. 

Indeed,  I  believe  there  is  nearly  as  much  occasion,  at  the 
present  day,  for  advocacy  of  Michael  Angelo  against  the 
pettiness  of  the  moderns,  as  there  is  for  support  of  Turner 
against  the  conventionalities  of  the  ancients.  For,  though 
the  names  of  the  fathers  of  sacred  art  are  on  all  our  lips,  our 
faith  in  them  is  much  like  that  of  the  great  world  in  its 
religion — nominal,  but  dead.  In  vain  our  lecturers  sound  the 
name  of  Raffaelle  in  the  ears  of  their  pupils,  while  their  own 
works  are  visibly  at  variance  with  every  principle  deducible 
from  his.  In  vain  is  the  young  student  compelled  to  produce 
a  certain  number  of  school  copies  of  Michael  Angelo,  when 
his  bread  must  depend  on  the  number  of  gewgaws  he  can 
crowd  into  his  canvas.  And  I  could  with  as  much  zeal  exert 
myself  against  the  modern  system  of  English  historical  art, 
as  I  have  in  favor  of  our  school  of  landscape,  but  that  it  is 
an  ungrateful  and  painful  task  to  attack  the  works  of  living 
painters,  struggling  with  adverse  circumstances  of  every  kind, 
and  especially  with  the  false  taste  of  a  nation  which  regards 
matters  of  art  either  with  the  ticklishness  of  an  infant,  or  the 
stolidity  of  a  Megatherium. 

I  have  been  accused,  in  the  execution  of  this  first  portion 
of  my  work,  of  irreverent  and  scurrile  expression  towards 
the  works  which  I  have  depreciated.    Possibly  I  may  have 


PBEFAGE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  47 


been  in  some  degree  infected  by  reading  those  criticisms  of 
our  periodicals,  which  consist  of  nothing  else;  but  I  believe 
in  general  that  my  words  will  be  found  to  have  sufficient 
truth  in  them  to  excuse  their  familiarity;  and  that  no  other 
weapons  could  have  been  used  to  pierce  the  superstitious 
prejudice  with  which  the  works  of  certain  painters  are  shield- 
ed from  the  attacks  of  reason.  My  answer  is  that  given  long 
ago  to  a  similar  complaint,  uttered  under  the  same  circum- 
stances by  the  foiled  sophist: — ("O?  8'  Icrriv  o  avOpijiiTo^ ; 
aTratScuTos  ris,  os  ovusi  <fiavXa  oi/d/xara  ovofxat^civ  roX/Jia  iv  crcfj^via 
Trpay/xart.)      Tolovtos  rts,  S)  iTrTraz,  ovSlv  aXXo  (ppovTit^oiV  rj  to  aXrj- 

It  is  with  more  surprise  that  I  have  heard  myself  accused 
of  thoughtless  severity  with  respect  to  the  works  of  contem- 
porary  painters,  for  I  fully  believe  that  whenever  I  attack 
them,  I  give  myself  far  more  pain  than  I  can  possibly  inflict; 
and,  in  many  instances,  I  have  withheld  reprobation  which  I 
considered  necessary  to  the  full  understanding  of  my  work, 
in  the  fear  of  grieving  or  injuring  men  of  whose  feelings  and 
circumstances  I  was  ignorant.  Indeed,  the  apparently  false 
and  exaggerated  bias  of  the  whole  book  in  favor  of  modern 
art,  is  in  great  degree  dependent  on  my  withholding  the 
animadversions  which  would  have  given  it  balance,  and  keep- 
ing silence  where  I  cannot  praise.  But  I  had  rather  be  a 
year  or  two  longer  in  effecting  my  purposes,  than  reach  them 
by  trampling  on  men's  hearts  and  hearths  ;  and  I  have  per- 
mitted myself  to  express  unfavorable  opinions  only  where 
the  popularity  and  favor  of  the  artist  are  so  great  as  to  render 
the  opinion  of  an  individual  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him. 

And  now — but  one  word  more.  For  many  a  year  we  have 
heard  nothing  with  respect  to  the  works  of  Turner  but  ac- 
cusations of  their  want  of  truth.  To  every  observation  on 
their  power,  sublimity,  or  beauty,  there  has  been  but  one 
reply  :  They  are  not  like  nature.  I  therefore  took  my  op- 
ponents on  their  own  ground,  and  demonstrated,  by  thorough 
investigation  of  actual  facts,  that  Turner  is  like  nature,  and 
paints  more  of  nature  than  any  man  who  ever  lived.  I  ex- 
pected this  proposition  (the  foundation  of  all  my  future 


48  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


efforts)  would  have  been  disputed  with  desperate  struggles, 
and  that  I  should  have  had  to  fight  my  way  to  my  position 
inch  by  inch.  Not  at  all.  My  opponents  yield  me  the  field 
at  once.  One  (the  writer  for  the  Athenaeum)  has  no  other 
resource  than  the  assertion,  that  "  he  disapproves  the  natural 
style  in  painting.  If  people  want  to  see  nature^  let  them  go 
and  look  at  herself.  Why  should  they  see  her  at  second- 
hand on  a  piece  of  canvas  ?"  The  other,  (Blackwood,)  still 
more  utterly  discomfited,  is  reduced  to  a  still  more  remark- 
able line  of  defence.  "  It  is  not,"  he  says,  "what  things  in 
all  respects  really  are,  but  how  they  are  convertible  by  the 
mind  into  what  they  are  not,  that  we  have  to  consider." 
(October,  1843,  p.  485.)  I  leave  therefore  the  reader  to 
choose  whether,  with  Blackwood  and  his  fellows,  he  will 
proceed  to  consider  how  things  are  convertible  by  the  mind 
into  what  they  are  not,  or  whether,  with  me,  he  will  undergo 
the  harder,  but  perhaps  on  the  whole  more  useful,  labor  of 
ascertaining — What  they  are. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 


It  is  with  much  regret,  and  partly  against  my  own  judg- 
ment, that  I  republish  the  following  chapters  in  their  pres- 
ent form.  The  particular  circumstances  (stated  in  the  first 
preface)  under  which  they  were  originally  written,  have  ren- 
dered them  so  unfit  for  the  position  they  now  hold  as  in- 
troductory to  a  serious  examination  of  the  general  func- 
tions of  art,  that  I  should  have  wished  first  to  complete  the 
succeeding  portions  of  the  essay,  and  then  to  write  another 
introduction  of  more  fitting  character.  But  as  it  may  be 
long  before  I  am  able  to  do  this,  and  as  I  believe  what  I  have 
already  written  may  still  be  of  some  limited  and  partial  ser- 
vice, I  have  suffered  it  to  reappear,  trusting  to  the  kindness 
of  the  reader  to  look  to  its  intention  rather  than  its  temper, 
and  forgive  its  inconsideration  in  its  earnestness. 

Thinking  it  of  too  little  substance  to  bear  mending,  wher- 
ever I  have  found  a  passage  which  I  thought  required  modi- 
fication or  explanation,  I  have  cut  it  out  ;  what  I  have  left, 
however  imperfect,  cannot  I  think  be  dangerously  misunder- 
stood :  something  I  have  added,  not  under  the  idea  of  ren- 
dering the  work  in  any  wise  systematic  or  complete,  but  to 
supply  gross  omissions,  answer  inevitable  objections,  and 
give  some  substance  to  passages  of  mere  declamation. 

Whatever  inadequacy  or  error  there  may  be,  throughout, 
in  materials  or  modes  of  demonstration,  I  have  no  doubt  of 
the  truth  and  necessity  of  the  main  result ;  and  though  the 
reader  may,  perhaps,  find  me  frequently  hereafter  showing 
other  and  better  grounds  for  what  is  here  affirmed,  yet  the 
Vol.  L— 4 


50  PREFACE  TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 


point  and  bearing  of  the  book,  its  determined  depreciation 
of  Claude,  Salvator,  Gaspar,  and  Canaletto,  and  its  equally 
determined  support  of  Turner  as  the  greatest  of  all  land- 
scape painters,  and  of  Turner's  recent  works  as  his  finest, 
are  good  and  right  ;  and  if  the  prevalence  throughout  of 
attack  and  eulogium  be  found  irksome  or  offensive,  let  it  be 
remembered  that  my  object  thus  far  has  not  been  either  the 
establishment  or  the  teaching  of  any  principles  of  art,  but 
the  vindication,  most  necessary  to  the  prosperity  of  our 
present  schools,  of  the  uncomprehended  rank  of  their  greatest 
artist,  and  the  diminution,  equally  necessary  as  I  think  to 
the  prosperity  of  our  schools,  of  the  unadvised  admiration  of 
the  landscape  of  the  seventeenth  century.  For  I  believe  it 
to  be  almost  impossible  to  state  in  terms  sufficiently  serious 
and  severe  the  depth  and  extent  of  the  evil  which  has  re- 
sulted (and  that  not  in  art  alone,  but  in  all  other  matters 
with  which  the  contemplative  faculties  are  concerned)  from 
the  works  of  those  elder  men.  On  the  continent  all  land- 
scape art  has  been  utterly  annihilated  by  them,  and  with  it 
all  sense  of  the  power  of  nature.  We  in  England  have 
only  done  better  because  our  artists  have  had  strength  of 
mind  enough  to  form  a  school  withdrawn  from  their  influ- 
ence. 

These  points  are  somewhat  farther  developed  in  the  gen- 
eral sketch  of.  ancient  and  modern  landscape,  which  I  have 
added  to  the  first  section  of  the  second  part.  Some  im- 
portant additions  have  also  been  made  to  the  chapters  on 
the  painting  of  sea.  Throughout  the  rest  of  the  text,  though 
something  is  withdrawn,  little  is  changed  ;  and  the  reader 
may  rest  assured  that  if  I  were  now  to  bestow  on  this  feeble 
essay  the  careful  revision  which  it  much  needs,  but  little  de- 
serves, it  would  not  be  to  alter  its  tendencies,  or  modify  its 
conclusions,  but  to  prevent  indignation  from  appearing 
virulence  on  the  one  side,  and  enthusiasm  partisanship  on 
the  other. 


PREFACE  TO  NEW  EDITION  (1873). 


I  HAVE  been  lately  so  often  asked  by  friends  on  whose 
judgment  I  can  rely,  to  permit  the  publication  of  another 
edition  of  "  Modern  Painters  "  in  its  original  form,  that  I 
have  at  last  yielded,  though  with  some  violence  to  my  own 
feelings;  for  many  parts  of  the  first  and  second  volumes  are 
written  in  a  narrow  enthusiasm,  and  the  substance  of  their 
metaphysical  and  religious  speculation  is  only  justifiable  on 
the  ground  of  its  absolute  honesty.  Of  the  third,  fourth,  and 
fifth  volumes  I  indeed  mean  eventually  to  rearrange  what  I 
think  of  permanent  interest,  for  the  complete  edition  of  my 
works,  but  with  fewer  and  less  elaborate  illustrations:  nor 
have  I  any  serious  grounds  for  refusing  to  allow  the  book 
once  more  to  appear  in  the  irregular  form  which  it  took  as  it 
was  written,  since  of  the  art-teaching  and  landscape  descrip- 
tion it  contains  I  have  little  to  retrench,  and  nothing  to 
retract. 

This  final  edition  must,  however,  be  limited  to  a  thousand 
copies,  for  some  of  the  more  delicate  plates  are  already  worn, 
that  of  the  Mill  Stream  in  the  fifth  volume,  and  of  the  Loire 
Side  very  injuriously;  while  that  of  the  Shores  of  Wharfe 
had  to  be  retouched  by  an  engraver  after  the  removal  of  the 
mezzotint  for  reprinting.  But  Mr.  Armytage's,  Mr.  Cousen's, 
and  Mr.  Cuff's  magnificent  plates  are  still  in  good  state,  and 
my  own  etchings,  though  injured,  are  still  good  enough  to 
answer  their  purpose. 


LIB. 


U.  Or  ILL 
CALESBURC 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 
OF  GENERAL  PRmCIPLES. 


SECTION  L 

OF  THE  NATURE  OF  THE  IDEAS  CONVEYABLE  BY  ART. 
CHAPTER  I.— Introductory. 

PAGE 

§  1.  Public  opinion  no  criterion  of  excellence,  except  after 

long  periods  of  time   67 

§  2.  And  therefore  obstinate  when  once  formed   70 

§  3.  The  author's  reasons  for  opposing  it  in  particular  instances  71 

§  4.  But  only  on  points  capable  of  demonstration   72 

§  5.  The  author's  partiality  to  modern  works  excusable   73 

CHAPTER  II.— Definition  of  Greatness  in  Art. 

§  1.  Distinction  between  the  painter's  intellectual  power  and 

technical  knowledge   74 

§  2.  Painting,  as  such,  is  nothing  more  than  language   74 

§  3.     Painter,"  a  term  corresponding  to  ''versifier"   75 

§  4.  Example  in  a  painting  of  E.  Landseer's   75 

§  5.  Difi&culty  of  fixing  an  exact  limit  between  language  and 

thought   76 

§  6.  Distinction  between  decorative  and  expressive  language.  76 

§  7.  Instance  in  the  Dutch  and  early  Italian  schools   77 

§  8.  Yet  there  are  certain  ideas  belonging  to  language  itself. .  78 

§  9.  The  definition   78 


54 


STJS^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  III.— Op  Ideas  of  Power. 

PAGE 

§  1.  What  classes  of  ideas  are  conveyable  by  art   79 

§  2.  Ideas  of  power  vary  much  in  relative  dignity   79 

§  3.  But  are  received  from  whatever  has  been  the  subject  of 

power.    The  meaning  of  the  word    excellence  "   80 

§  4.  What  is  necessary  to  the  distinguishing  of  excellence. ...  82 

§  5.  The  pleasure  attendant  on  conquering  difficulties  is  right  82 

CHAPTER  IV.— Of  Ideas  of  Imitation. 

§  1.  False  use  of  the  term    imitation  "  by  many  writers  of  art  83 

§  2.  Real  meaning  of  the  term   84 

§  3.  What  is  requisite  to  the  sense  of  imitation   85 

§  4.  The  pleasure  resulting  from  imitation  the  most  contemp- 
tible that  can  be  derived  from  art.   86 

§  5.  Imitation  is  only  of  contemptible  subjects  «  86 

§  6.  Imitation  is  contemptible  because  it  is  easy   86 

§  7.  Recapitulation  .*   87 

CHAPTER  v.— Of  Ideas  of  Truth. 

§  1.  Meaning  of  the  word    truth  "  as  applied  to  art   87 

§  2.  Firsb  difference  between  truth  and  imitation   88 

§3.  Second  difference   88 

§4.  Third  difference   88 

§  5.  No  accurate  truths  necessary  to  imitation   89 

§  6.  Ideas  of  truth  are  inconsistent  with  ideas  of  imitation. ...  91 

CHAPTER  VI.— Of  Ideas  of  Beauty. 

§  1.  Definition  of  the  term     beautiful "   92 

§  2.  Definition  of  the  term    taste"   92 

§  3.  Distinction  between  taste  and  judgment   93 

§  4.  How  far  beauty  may  become  intellectual   93 

§  5.  The  high  rank  and  function  of  ideas  of  beauty   94 

§  6.  Meaning  of  the  term    ideal  beauty   ,   94 

CHAPTER  VII.— Of  Ideas  of  Relation. 

§  1.  General  meaning  of  the  term   94 

§  2.  What  ideas  are  to  be  comprehended  under  it   95 

§  3.  The  exceeding  nobility  of  these  ideas   96 

§  4.  Why  no  subdivision  of  so  extensive  a  class  is  necessary. . .  96 


SYJ^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS, 


55 


SECTION  IL 
OF  POWER. 

CHAPTER  I.  —  General  Principles  respecting  Ideas  of 
Power. 

PAGE 


§  1.  No  necessity  for  detailed  study  of  ideas  of  imitation   98 

§  2.  Nor  for  separate  study  of  ideas  of  power   98 

§  3.  Except  under  one  particular  form   99 

§  4.  There  are  two  modes  of  receiving  ideas  of  power,  com- 
monly inconsistent   99 

g  5.  First  reason  of  the  inconsistency   99 

g  6.  Second  reason  for  the  inconsistency   100 

g  7.  The  sensation  of  power  ought  not  to  be  sought  in  imper- 
fect art   100 

g  8.  Instances  in  pictures  of  modern  artists   101 

§  9.  Connection  between  ideas  of  power  and  modes  of  execu- 
tion  101 

CHAPTER  II.— Of  Ideas  of  Power,  as  they  are  depend- 
ent UPON  Execution. 

§  1.  Meaning  of  the  term    execution"   102 

g  2.  The  first  quality  of  execution  is  truth   102 

g  3.  The  second,  simplicity   103 

g  4.  The  third,  mystery   103 

g  5.  The  fourth,  inadequacy ;  and  the  fifth,  decision   103 

g  6.  The  sixth,  velocity   103 

g  7.  Strangeness  an  illegitimate  source  of  pleasure  in  execu- 
tion  103 

g  8.  Yet  even  the  legitimate  sources  of  pleasure  in  execution 

are  inconsistent  with  each  other   105 

g  9.  And  fondness  for  ideas  of  power  leads  to  the  adoption 

of  the  lowest   105 

g  10.  Therefore  perilous   106 

g  11.  Recapitulation   106 

CHAPTER  III. -Op  the  Sublime. 

§  1.  Sublimity  is  the  effect  upon  the  mind  of  anything  above  it  107 
g  2.  Burke's  theory  of  the  nature  of  the  sublime  incorrect,  and 

why   107 

g  3.  Danger  is  sublime,  but  not  the  fear  of  it   108 

g  4.  The  highest  beauty  is  sublime   108 

g  5.  And  generally  whatever  elevates  the  mind  108 

g  6.  The  former  division  of  the  subject  is  therefore  sufficient  109 


56 


JSYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PART  IL 
OF  TEUTH. 
SECTION  L 

GENERAL  PRINCIPLES  RESPECTING  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH. 
CHAPTER  L— Of  Ideas  of  Truth  in  their  connection 

WITH  THOSE  OF  BeAUTY  AND  RELATION. 

PAGE 


§  1.  The  two  great  ends  of  landscape  painting  are  the  repre- 
sentation of  facts  and  thoughts  110 

§  2.  They  induce  a  different  choice  of  material  subjects  . . , .  Ill 
§  3.  The  first  mode  of  selection  apt  to  produce  sameness  and 

repetition  ,   Ill 

§  4.  The  second  necessitating  variety  112 

§  5.  Yet  the  first  is  delightful  to  all   112 

§  6.  The  second  only  to  a  few  112 

§  7.  The  first  necessary  to  the  second   113 

§  8.  The  exceeding  importance  of  truth   114 

§  9.  Coldness  or  want  of  beauty  no  sign  of  truth  114 

§  10.  How  truth  may  be  considered  a  just  criterion  of  all  art.  114 

CHAPTER  II.— That  the  Truth  of  Nature  is  not  to  be 

DISCERNED  BY  THE  UNEDUCATED  SENSES. 

g  1.  The  common  self-deception  of  men  with  respect  to  their 

power  of  discerning  truth  „   116 

§  2.  Men  usually  see  little  of  what  is  before  their  eyes   116 

§  3.  But  more  or  less  in  proportion  to  their  natural  sensibility 

to  what  is  beautiful   118 

§4.  Connected  with  a  perfect  state  of  moral  feeling   118 

§  5.  And  of  the  intellectual  powers   119 

§  6.  How  sight  depends  upon  previous  knowledge   120 

§  7.  The  diificulty  increased  by  the  variety  of  truths  in  nature  121 
§  8.  We  recognize  objects  by  their  least  important  attributes. 

Compare  Part  L,  Sect.  I.,  Chap.  4  122 

CHAPTER  III.— Of  the  Relative  Importance  of  Truths: 
—First,  that  Particular  Truths  are  more  impor- 
tant THAN  General  Ones. 
§  1.  Necessity  of  determining   the  relative  importance  of 

truths   124 


STI^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS,  57 

PAGB 

§2.  Misapplication  .of  the  aphorism:     General  truths  are 

more  important  than  particular  ones"  124 

§  3.  Falseness  of  this  maxim  taken  without  explanation  125 

§  4.  Generality  important  in  the  subject,  particularity  in  the 

predicate   125 

§  5.  The  importance  of  truths  of  species  is  not  owing  to  their 

generality   126 

§  6.  All  truths  valuable  as  they  are  characteristic   127 

§  7.  Otherwise  truths  of  species  are  valuable,  because  beauti- 
ful  127 

§  8.  And  many  truths,  valuable  if  separate,  may  be  objection- 
able in  connection  with  others   128 

§  9.  Recapitulation  129 


CHAPTER  IV.— Of  the  Relative  Importance  of  Truths: — 
Secondly,  that  Rare  Truths  are  more  important 
THAN  Frequent  Ones. 

§  1.  No  accidental  violation  of  nature's  principles  should  be 
represented  

§  2.  But  the  cases  in  which  those  principles  have  been  strik- 
ingly exemplified  

§  3.  Which  are  comparatively  rare  

§  4.  All  repetition  is  blamable  

§  5.  The  duty  of  the  painter  is  the  same  as  that  of  a  preacher 

CHAPTER  v.— Of  the  Relative  Importance  of  Truths:— 
Thirdly,  that  Truths  of  Color  are  the  least  im- 
portant OF  ALL  Truths. 


§  1.  Difference  between  primary  and  secondary  qualities  in 

bodies   132 

§  2.  The  first  are  fully  characteristic,  the  second  imperfectly 

so   132 

§  3.  Color  is  a  secondary  quality,  therefore  less  important 

than  form   133 

§  4.  Color  no  distinction  between  objects  of  the  same  species  134 

§  5.  And  different  in  association  from  what  it  is  alone   134 

§  6.  It  is  not  certain  whether  any  two  people  see  the  same 

colors  in  things   134 

§  7.  Form,  considered  as  an  element  of  landscape,  includes 

light  and  shade   135 

§  8.  Importance  of  light  and  shade  in  expressing  the  character 

of  bodies,  and  unimportance  of  color.   135 

§  9.  Recapitulation   136 


129 

130 
130 
131 
131 


58 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  VI.— Recapitulation. 

PAGE 


§  1.  The  importance  of  historical  truths   186 

§  2.  Form,  as  explained  by  light  and  shade,  the  first  of  all 

truths.    Tone,  light,  and  color  are  secondary  137 

§3.  And  deceptive  chiaroscuro  the  lowest  of  all   137 

CHAPTER  YIL— General  Application  of  the  Foregoing 
Principles. 

§  1.  The  different  selection  of  facts  consequent  on  the  several 

aims  at  imitation  or  at  truth   138 

§  2.  The  old  masters,  as  a  body,  aim  only  at  imitation  139 

§  3.  What  truths  they  gave   139 

§  4.  The  principles  of  selection  adopted  by  modem  artists  141 

§  5.  General  feeling  of  Claude,  Salvator,  and  G.  Poussin,  con- 
trasted with  the  freedom  and  vastness  of  nature  141 

§  6.  Inadequacy  of  the  landscape  of  Titian  and  Tintoret  142 

§  7.  Causes  of  its  want  of  influence  on  subsequent  schools. . .  143 
§  8.  The  value  of  inferior  works  of  art,  how  to  be  estimated  145 
§  9.  Religious  landscape  of  Italy.    The  admirableness  of  its 

completion    146 

§  10.  Finish,  and  the  want  of  it,  how  right  and  how  wrong  147 
§  11.  The  open  skies  of  the  religious  schools,  how  valuable. 

Mountain  drawing  of  Masaccio.    Landscape  of  the 

Bellinis  and  Giorgione   149 

§  12.  Landscape  of  Titian  and  Tintoret   151 

§  13.  Schools  of  Florence,  Milan,  and  Bologna   153 

§  14.  Claude,  Salvator,  and  the  Poussins   154 

§  15.  German  and  Flemish  landscape   155 

§  16.  The  lower  Dutch  schools    157 

§17.  English  school,  Wilson  and  Gainsborough  158 

§  18.  Constable,  Calcott  159 

§  19.  Peculiar  tendency  of  recent  landscape   160 

§  20.  G.  Robson,  D.  Cox.    False  use  of  the  term    style    . . .  161 

§  21.  Copley  Fielding.    Phenomena  of  distant  color  163 

§  22.  Beauty  of  mountain  foreground   105 

§23.  DeWint   167 

§  24.  Influence  of  Engraving.    J.  D.  Harding   168 

§  25.  Samuel  Prout.     Early  painting  of  architecture,  how 

deficient   160 

§  26.  Effects  of  age  upon  buildings,  how  far  desirable  170 

§  27.  Effects  of  light,  how  necessary  to  the  understanding  of 

detail   173 

§  28.  Architectural  painting  of  Gentile  Bellini  and  Vittor 

Carpaccio   174 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  59 

PAGE 

§  29.  And  of  the  Venetians  generally   176 

§  30.  Fresco  painting  of  the  Venetian  exteriors.  Canaletto. .  177 
§  31.  Expression  of  the  effects  of  age  on  Architecture  by  S. 

Prout   180 

§32.  His  excellent  composition  and  color   181 

§  33.  Modern  architectural  painting  generally.  G.  Cattermole  183 
§  34.  The  evil  in  an  archseological  point  of  view  of  misapplied 

invention  in  architectural  subject   184 

§  35.  Works  of  David  Roberts  :  their  fidelity  and  grace   186 

§  36.  Clarkson  Stanfield   188 

§  37.  J.  M.  W.  Turner.    Force  of  national  feeling  in  all  great 

painters   191 

§  38.  Influence  of  this  feeling  on  the  choice  of  Landscape 

subject   193 

§  39.  Its  peculiar  manifestation  in  Turner  194 

§  40.  The  domestic  subjects  of  the  Liber  Studiorum  195 

§  41.  Turner's  painting  of  French  and  Swiss  landscape.  The 

latter  deficient   197 

§  42.  His  rendering  of  Italian  character  still  less  successful. 

His  large  compositions  how  failing   198 

§  43.  His  views  of  Italy  destroyed  by  brilliancy  and  redundant 

quantity   201 

§  44.  Changes  introduced  by  him  in  the  received  system  of  art.  202 
§  45.  Difficulties  of  his  later  manner.    Resultant  deficiencies .  203 

§46.  Reflection  of  his  very  recent  works  206 

§  47.  Difficulty  of  demonstration  in  such  subjects   208 

SECTION  II. 
OF  GENERAL  TRUTHS. 

CHAPTER  I.— Op  Truth  of  Tone. 

§  1.  Meaning  of  the  word    tone First,  the  right  relation 

of  objects  in  shadow  to  the  principal  light  210 

§  2.  Secondly,  the  quality  of  color  by  which  it  is  felt  to  owe 

part  of  its  brightness  to  the  hue  of  light  upon  it  210 

§  3.  Difference  between  tone  in  its  first  sense  and  aerial  per- 
spective   211 

§  4.  The  pictures  of  the  old  masters  perfect  in  relation  of 

middle  tints  \o  light   211 

§  5.  And  consequently  totally  false  in  relation  of  middle  tints 

to  darkness   212 

§  6.  General  falsehood  of  such  a  system  213 


60 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

§    7.  The  principle  of  Turner  in  this  respect   213 

§    8.  Comparison  of  N.  Poussin's  *'Phocion"   214 

§    9.  With  Turner's  "Mercury  and  Argus"  215 

§  10.  And  with  the  "  Datur  Hora  Quieti"  216 

§  11.  The  second  sense  of  the  word  "tone''   216 

§  12.  Remarkable  difference  in  this  respect  between  the  paint- 
ings and  drawings  of  Turner  216 

§  13.  Not  owing  to  want  of  power  over  the  material .....  217 

§  14.  The  two  distinct  qualities  of  light  to  be  considered  ....  218 
§  15.  Falsehoods  by  which  Titian  attains  the  appearance  of 

quality  in  light  218 

§  16.  Turner  will  not  use  such  means  219 

§  17.  But  gains  in  essential  truth  by  the  sacrifice  219 

§  18.  The  second  quality  of  light  220 

§  19.  The  perfection  of  Cuyp  in  this  respect  interfered  with 

by  numerous  solecisms   221 

§  20.  Turner  is  not  so  perfect  in  parts— far  more  so  in  the  whole.  222 

§  21.  The  power  in  Turner  of  uniting  a  number  of  tones  223 

§  22.  Recapitulation  224 

CHAPTER  11. —Of  Tkuth  of  Color. 

§    1.  Observations  on  the  color  of  G.  Poussin's  LaRiecia   225 

§    2.  As  compared  with  the  actual  scene   225 

§    3.  Turner  himself  is  inferior  in  brilliancy  to  nature   227 

§    4.  Impossible  colors  of  Salvator,  Titian   227 

§    5.  Poussin,  and  Claude   229 

§    6.  Turner's  translation  of  colors   231 

§    7.  Notice  of  effects  in  which  no  brilliancy  of  art  can  even 

approach  that  of  reality   231 

§    8.  Reasons  for  the  usual  incredulity  of  the  observer  with 

respect  to  their  representation   232 

§    9.  Color  of  the  Napoleon   234 

§  10.  Necessary  discrepancy  between  the  attainable  brilliancy 

of  color  and  light   234 

§  11.  This  discrepancy  less  in  Turner  than  in  other  colorists. ,  235 

§  12.  Its  great  extent  in  a  landscape  attributed  to  Rubens. . .  236 

§  13.  Turner  scarcely  ever  uses  pure  or  vivid  color   236 

§  14.  The  basis  of  gray,  under  all  his  vivid  hues   238 

§  15.  The  variety  and  fulness  even  of  his  most  simple  tones.  239 
§  16.  Following  the  infinite  and  unapproachable  variety  of 

nature   239 

§  17.  His  dislike  of  purple,  and  fondness  for  the  opposition  of 

yellow  and  black.    The  principles  of  nature  in  this 

respect   240 


STJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  61 

PAGE 

§  18.  His  early  works  are  false  in  color  ,  242 

§  19.  His  drawings  invariably  perfect   242 

§  20.  The  subjection  of  his  system  of  color  to  that  of  chiaros- 
curo   242 

CHAPTER  IIL— Of  Truth  of  Chiaroscuro. 

§    1.  We  are  not  at  present  to  examine  particular  effects  of 

light   245 

§    2.  And  therefore  the  distinctness  of  shadows  is  the  chief 

means  of  expressing  vividness  of  light   246 

§    3.  Total  absence  of  such  distinctness  in  the  works  of  the 

Italian  school   247 

§    4.  And  partial  absence  in  the  Butch  ,   247 

§    5.  The  perfection  of  Tamer's  works  in  this  respect   248 

§    6.  The  effect  of  hig-shadows  upon  the  light  250 

§    7.  The  distinction  holds  good  between  almost  all  the  works 

of  the  ancient  and  modern  schools , . . ,  250 

§    8.  Second  great  principle  of  chiaroscuro.    Both  high  light 

and  deep  shadow  are  used  in  equal  quantity,  and  only 

in  points  252 

§    9.  Neglect  or  contradiction  of  this  principle  by  writers  on 

art   252 

§  10.  And  consequent  misguiding  of  the  student   253 

§  11.  The  great  value  of  a  simple  chiaroscuro  254 

§  12.  The  sharp  separation  of  nature's  lights  from  her  middle 

tint..   254 

§  13.  The  truth  of  Turner   255 

CHAPTER  ly. — Of  Truth  of  Space: — First,  as  Dependent 
ON  THE  Focus  of  the  Eye. 

§  1.  Space  is  more  clearly  indicated  by  the  drawing  of  ob- 
jects than  by  their  hue  257 

§  2.  It  is  impossible  to  see  objects  at  unequal  distances  dis- 
tinctly at  one  moment   258 

§    3.  Especially  such  as  are  both  comparatively  near   258 

§    4.  In  painting,  therefore,  either  the  foreground  or  distance 

must  be  partially  sacrificed   259 

§    5.  Which  not  being  done  by  the  old  masters,  they  could 

not  express  space    259 

§    6.  But  modern  artists  have  succeeded  in  fully  carrying  out 

this  principle   260 

§    7.  Especially  of  Turner   261 

§    8.  Justification  of  the  want  of  drawing  in  Turner's  figures  262 


62 


SYN'OFSIS  OF  CONTENTS, 


PAGE 


CHAPTER  v.— Of  Truth  op  Space  : — Secondly,  as  its  Ap- 
pearance IS  Dependent  on  the  Power  op  the 
Eye. 

§    1.  The  peculiar  indistinctness  dependent  on  the  retire- 
ment of  objects  from  the  eye  263 

§    2.  Causes  confusion,  but  not  annihilation  of  details  263 

g    3.  Instances  in  various  objects   264 

§    4.  Two  great  resultant  truths  ;  that  nature  is  never  dis- 
tinct, and  never  vacant   265 

§    5.  Complete  violation  of  both  these  principles  by  the  old 

masters.    They  are  either  distinct  or  vacant  266 

§    6.  Instances  from  Nicholas  Poussin  266 

§    7.  From  Claude   266 

§    8.  AndG.  Poussin   268 

§    9.  The  imperative  necessity,  in  landscape  painting,  of  ful- 
ness and  finish  ,   268 

§  10.  Breadth  is  not  vacancy.  269 

§  11.  The  fulness  and  mystery  of  Turner's  distances  371 

§  12.  Farther  illustrations  in  architectural  drawing  271 

§  13.  In  near  objects  as  well  as  distances  272 

§  14.  Vacancy  and  falsehood  of  Canaletto  272 

§  15.  Still  greater  fulness  and  finish  in  landscape  foregrounds  273 
§  16.  Space  and  size  are  destroyed  alike  by  distinctness  and 

by  vacancy  Ji75 

§  17.  Swift  execution  best  secures  perfection  of  details   275 

§  18.  Finish  is  far  more  necessary  in  landscape  than  in  histori- 
cal subjects  275 

§  19.  Recapitulation  of  the  section  276 

SECTION  III. 
OF  TRUTH  OF  SKIES. 
CHAPTER  L— Op  the  Open  Sky. 

§  1.  The  peculiar  adaptation  of  the  sky  to  the  pleasing  and 

teaching  of  man  277 

§  2.  The  carelessness  with  which  its  lessons  are  received. . . .  278 

§  3.  The  most  essential  of  these  lessons  are  the  gentlest. . . .  278 

§    4.  Many  of  our  ideas  of  sky  altogether  conventional  279 

§    5.  Nature  and  essential  qualities  of  the  open  blue  279 

§    6.  Its  connection  with  clouds   280 

§    7.  Its  exceeding  depth   280 

§  8.  These  qualities  are  especially  given  by  modern  masters  281 

§   9.  And  by  Claude  ,  281 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  63 

PAGE 

§  10.  Total  absence  of  them  in  Poussin.    Physical  errors  in 

his  general  treatment  of  open  sky  282 

§  11.  Errors  of  Cuyp  in  graduation  of  color   282 

§  13.  The  exceeding  value  of  the  skies  of  the  early  Italian 
and  Dutch  schools.  Their  qualities  are  unattainable 
in  modern  times   284 

§  13.  Phenomena  of  visible  sunbeams.     Their  nature  and 

cause   284 

§  14.  They  are  only  illuminated  mist,  and  cannot  appear  when 
the  sky  is  free  from  vapor,  nor  when  it  is  without 
clouds  285 

§  15.  Erroneous  tendency  in  the  representation  of  such  phe- 
nomena by  the  old  masters   28G 

§  16.  The  ray  which  appears  in  the  dazzled  eye  should  not  be 

represented   28G 

§  17.  The  practice  of  Turner.     His  keen  perception  of  the 

more  delicate  phenomena  of  rays  287 

§  18.  The  total  absence  of  any  evidence  of  such  perception  in 

the  works  of  the  old  masters   287 

§  19.  Truth  of  the  skies  of  modern  drawings  288 

§  20.  Recapitulation.  The  best  skies  of  the  ancients  are,  in 
quality^  inimitable,  but  in  rendering  of  various  truth, 
childish  •   288 

CHAPTER  11.— Of  Truth  of  Clouds  :— First,  of  the  Re- 
gion OF  THE  Cirrus. 

§  1.  Difficulty  of  ascertaining  wherein  the  truth  of  clouds 

consists   289 

§  2.  Variation  of  their  character  at  different  elevations.  The 
three  regions  to  which  they  may  conveniently  be  con- 
sidered as  belonging   290 

§  3.  Extent  of  the  upper  region   290 

§  4.  The  symmetrical  arrangement  of  its  clouds.   290 

§  5.  Their  exceeding  delicacy   291 

§  6.  Their  number   292 

§  7.  Causes  of  their  peculiarly  delicate  coloring   292 

§  8.  Their  variety  of  form   293 

§  9.  Total  absence  of  even  the  slightest  effort  at  their  repre- 
sentation, in  ancient  landscape   293 

§  10.  The  intense  and  constant  study  of  them  by  Turner   294 

§  11.  His  vignette,  Sunrise  on  the  Sea   296 

§  12.  His  use  of  the  cirrus  in  expressing  mist   297 

§  13.  His  consistency  in  every  minor  feature   ,  297 


64 


SYlSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

§  14.  The  color  of  the  upper  clouds   298 

§  15.  Recapitulation  299 

CHAPTER  III.— Of  Truth  of  Clouds:— Secondly,  of  the 
Central  Cloud  Region. 

§  1.  Extent  and  typical  character  of  the  central  cloud  region.  300 
§  2.  Its  characteristic  clouds,  requiring  no  attention  nor 
thought  for  their  representation,  are  therefore  favor- 
ite subjects  with  the  old  masters   300 

§  3.  The  clouds  of  Salvator  and  Poussin  301 

§  4.  Their  essential  characters  301 

§  5.  Their  angular  forms  and  general  decision  of  outline. .. .  303 

§   6.-  The  composition  of  their  minor  curves  803 

§  7.  Their  characters,  as  given  by  S.  Rosa  304 

§  8.  Monotony  and  falsehood  of  the  clouds  of  the  Italian 

school  generally  304 

§  9.  Vast  size  of  congregated  masses  of  cloud   305 

§  10.  Demonstrable  by  comparison  with  mountain  ranges. . . .  306 

§  11.  And  consequent  divisions  and  varieties  of  feature  306 

§  12.  Not  lightly  to  be  omitted   307 

§  13.  Imperfect  conceptions  of  this  size  and  extent  in  ancient 

landscape   308 

§  14.  Total  want  of  transparency  and  evanescence  in  the 

clouds  of  ancient  landscape.  308 

§  15.  Farther  proof  of  their  deficiency  in  space  309 

§  16.  Instance  of  perfect  truth  in  the  sky  of  Turner's  Babylon  310 

§17.  And  in  his  Pools  of  Solomon   311 

§  18.  Truths  of  outline  and  character  in  his  Como  312 

§  19.  Association  of  the  cirrostratus  with  the  cumulus  313 

§  20.  The  deep-based  knowledge  of  the  Alps  in  Turner's  Lake 

of  Geneva   313 

§  21.  Further  principles  of  cloud  form  exemplified  in  his 

Amalfi   313 

§  22.  Reasons  for  insisting  on  the  infinity  of  Turner's  works. 

Infinity  is  almost  an  unerring  test  of       truth  314 

§  23.  Instances  of  the  total  want  of  it  in  the  works  of  Salvator  315 
§  24.  And  of  the  universal  presence  of  it  in  those  of  Turner. 

The  conclusions  which  may  be  arrived  at  from  it. . . .  315 
§  25.  The  multiplication  of  objects,  or  increase  of  their  size, 
will  not  give  the  impression  of  infinity,  but  is  the 

resource  of  novices   316 

§  26.  Farther  instances  of  infinity  in  the  gray  skies  of  Turner  317 

§  27.  The  excellence  of  the  cloud-drawing  of  Stanfield  317 

§28.  The  average  standing  of  the  English  school  318 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


65 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  IV.— Of  Truth  of  Clouds  :— Thirdly,  of  the 
Region  of  the  Rain-Cloud. 
§  1 .  The  apparent  difference  in  character  between  the  lower 

and  central  clouds  is  dependent  chiefly  on  proximity  319 

§  2.  Their  marked  difference  in  color   319 

§  3.  And  in  definiteness  of  form  320 

§  4.  They  are  subject  to  precisely  the  same  great  laws   321 

§  5.  Value,  to  the  painter,  of  the  rain-cloud   321 

§  6.  The  old  masters  have  not  left  a  single  instance  of  the 
painting  of  the  rain-cloud,  and  very  few  efforts  at  it. 

Caspar  Poussin's  storms  ,  323 

§  7.  The  great  power  of  the  moderns  in  this  respect  323 

§  8.  Works  of  Copley  Fielding   323 

§  9.  His  peculiar  truth  e..  324 

§  10.  His  weakness  and  its  probable  cause  324 

§  11.  Impossibility  of  reasoning  on  the  rain- clouds  of  Turner 

from  engravings   325 

§  12.  His  rendering  of  Fielding's  particular  moment  in  the 

Jumieges   326 

§  13.  Illustration  of  the  nature  of  clouds  in  the  opposed  forms 

of  smoke  and  steam   326 

§  14.  Moment  of  retiring  rain  in  the  Llanthony   327 

§  15.  And  of  commencing,  chosen  with  peculiar  meaning'  for 

Loch  Coriskin   327 

§  16.  The  drawing  of  transparent  vapor  in  the  Land's  End. . .  328 

§  17.  The  individual  character  of  its  parts  329 

§  18.  Deep  studied  form  of  swift  rain-cloud  in  the  Coventry. .  330 

§  19.  Compared  with  forms  given  by  Salvator   330 

§  20.  Entire  expression  of  tempest  by  minute  touches  and  cir- 
cumstances in  the  Coventry   331 

§  21.  Especially  by  contrast  with  a  passage  of  extreme  repose  331 
§  22.  The  truth  of  this  particular  passage.    Perfectly  pure 

blue  sky  only  seen  after  rain,  and  how  seen  332 

§  23.  Absence  of  this  effect  in  the  works  of  the  old  masters. .  332 
§  24.  Success  of  our  water-color  artists  in  its  rendering.  Use 

of  it  by  Turner  333 

§  25.  Expression  of  near  rain- cloud  in  the  Gosport,  and  other 

works...,   333 

§  26.  Contrasted  with  Caspar  Poussin's  rain-cloud  in  the  Dido 

and  ^neas   334 

§  27.  Turner's  power  of  rendering  mist   334 

§  28.  His  effects  of  mist  so  perfect,  that  if  not  at  once  under- 
stood, they  can  no  more  be  explained  or  reasoned  on 

than  nature  herself. . .  335 

Vol.  I.— 5 


66 


SYI^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

§  29.  Various  instances   335 

§  30.  Turner's  more  violent  effects  of  tempest  are  never  ren- 
dered by  engravers  336 

§31.  General  system  of  landscape  engraving  336 

§32.  The  storm  in  the  Stonehenge   337 

§  33.  General  character  of  such  effects  as  given  by  Turner. 

His  expression  of  falling  rain   337 

§  34.  Recapitulation  of  the  section  338 

§  35.  Sketch  of  a  few  of  the  skies  of  nature,  taken  as  a  whole, 
compared  with  the  works  of  Turner  and  of  the  old 

masters.    Morning  on  the  plains,  338 

§  36.  Noon  with  gathering  storms   339 

§  37.  Sunset  in  tempest.    Serene  midnight   340 

§  38.  And  sunrise  on  the  Alps  341 

CHAPTER  V. — Effects  of  Light  rendered  by  Modern  Art. 

§  1.  Reasons  for  merely,  at  present,  naming,  without  exam- 
ining the  particular  effects  of  light  rendered  by  Tur- 
ner.. .  342 

§  2.  Hopes  of  the  author  for  assistance  in  the  future  investi- 
gation of  them  342 


MODERN  PAINTERS. 


PAET  I. 
OF  GENEEAL  PRINCIPLES. 


SIECTXOIsr  I. 

OF  THE  NATUEE  OF  THE   IDEAS  CONVEYABLE  BY 

AET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

If  it  be  true,  and  it  can  scarcely  be  disputed,  that  nothing 
has  been  for  centuries  consecrated  by  public  admiration, 
without  possessing  in  a  high  degree  some  kind  of  sterling 
excellence,  it  is  not  because  the  average  intellect  and  feeling 
§  1.  Public  opinion  of  the  maioritv  of  the  public  are  competent 

no  criterion  of  ex-    ,  ...  . 

ceiience,  except  af-  in  any  Way  to  distinguish  what  is  really  excel- 

ter  long  periods  of   ,  i        i  n  .... 

time.  lent,  but  because  all  erroneous  opinion  is  incon- 

sistent, and  all  ungrounded  opinion  transitory  ;  so  that 
while  the  fancies  and  feelings  which  deny  deserved  honor 
and  award  what  is  undue  have  neither  root  nor  strength 
sufficient  to  maintain  consistent  testimony  for  a  length  of 
time,  the  opinions  formed  on  right  grounds  by  those  few 
who  are  in  reality  competent  judges,  being  necessarily  stable, 
communicate  themselves  gradually  from  mind  to  mind,  de- 


68 


INTRODUGTOBY. 


scending  lower  as  they  extend  wider,  until  they  leaven  the 
whole  lump,  and  rule  by  absolute  authority,  even  where  the 
grounds  and  reasons  for  them  cannot  be  understood.  On 
this  gradual  victory  of  what  is  consistent  over  what  is  vacil- 
lating, depends  the  reputation  of  all  that  is  highest  in  art 
and  literature.  For  it  is  an  insult  to  what  is  really  great  in 
either,  to  suppose  that  it  in  any  way  addresses  itself  to 
mean  or  uncultivated  faculties.  It  is  a  matter  of  the  simplest 
demonstration,  that  no  man  can  be  really  appreciated  but 
by  his  equal  or  superior.  His  inferior  may  over-estimate 
him  in  enthusiasm  ;  or,  as  is  more  commonly  the  case,  de- 
grade him,  in  ignorance  ;  but  he  cannot  form  a  grounded 
and  just  estimate.  Without  proving  this,  however — which 
it  would  take  more  space  to  do  than  I  can  spare — it  is  suffi- 
ciently evident  that  there  is  no  process  of  amalgamation  by 
which  opinions,  wrong  individually,  can  become  right  merely 
by  their  multitude.* 

If  I  stand  by  a  picture  in  the  Academy,  and  hear  twenty 
persons  in  succession  admiring  some  paltry  piece  of  mechan- 
ism or  imitation  in  the  lining  of  a  cloak,  or  the  satin  of  a 
slipper,  it  is  absurd  to  tell  me  that  they  reprobate  collectively 
what  they  admire  individually  :  or,  if  they  pass  with  apathy 
by  a  piece  of  the  most  noble  conception  or  most  perfect 
truth,  because  it  has  in  it  no  tricks  of  the  brush  nor  gri- 
mace of  expression,  it  is  absurd  to  tell  me  that  they  collective- 
ly respect  what  they  separately  scorn,  or  that  the  feelings 
and  knowledge  of  such  judges,  by  any  length  of  time  or 
comparison  of  ideas,  could  come  to  any  right  conclusion  with 
respect  to  what  is  really  high  in  art.  The  question  is  not 
decided  by  them,  but  for  them  ; — decided  at  first  by  few  :  by 
fewer  in  proportion  as  the  merits  of  the  work  are  of  a  higher 
order.  From  these  few  the  decision  is  communicated  to  the 
number  next  below  them  in  rank  of  mind,  and  by  these  again 

*  The  opinion  of  a  majority  is  right  only  when  it  is  more  probable 
with  each  individual  that  he  should  be  right  than  that  he  should  be 
wrong,  as  in  the  case  of  a  jury.  Where  it  is  more  probable,  with 
respect  to  each  individual,  that  he  should  be  wrong  than  right,  the 
opinion  of  the  minority  is  the  true  one.    Thus  it  is  in  art. 


INTRODUCTORY, 


69 


to  a  wider  and  lower  circle  ;  each  rank  being  so  far  cogni- 
zant of  the  superiority  of  that  above  it,  as  to  receive  its  deci- 
sion with  respect  ;  until,  in  jDrocess  of  time,  the  right  and 
consistent  opinion  is  communicated  to  all,  and  held  by  all  as 
a  matter  of  faith,  the  more  positively  in  proportion  as  the 
grounds  of  it  are  less  perceived.* 

*  There  are,  however,  a  thousand  modifying  circamstances  which 
render  this  process  sometimes  unnecessary, — sometimes  rapid  and  cer- 
tain— sometimes  impossible.  It  is  unnecessary  in  rhetoric  and  the 
drama,  because  the  multitude  is  the  only  proper  judge  of  those  arts 
whose  end  is  to  move  the  multitude  (though  more  is  necessary  to  a 
fine  play  than  is  essentially  dramatic,  and  it  is  only  of  the  dramatic 
part  that  the  multitude  are  cognizant).  It  is  unnecessary,  when,  uni- 
ted with  the  higher  qualities  of  a  work,  there  are  appeals  to  universal 
passion,  to  all  the  faculties  and  feelings  which  are  general  in  man  as 
an  animal.  The  popularity  is  then  as  sudden  as  it  is  well  grounded, 
— it  is  hearty  and  honest  in  every  mind,  but  it  is  based  in  every  mind 
on  a  different  species  of  excellence.  Such  will  often  be  the  case  with 
the  noblest  works  of  literature.  Take  Don  Quixote  for  example.  The 
lowest  mind  would  find  in  it  perpetual  and  brutal  amusement  in  the 
misfortunes  of  the  knight,  and  perpetual  pleasure  in  sympathy  with 
the  squire.  A  mind  of  average  feeling  would  perceive  the  satirical 
meaning  and  force  of  the  book,  would  appreciate  its  wit,  its  elegance, 
and  its  truth.  But  only  elevated  and  peculiar  minds  discover,  in  addi- 
tion to  all  this,  the  full  moral  beauty  of  the  love  and  truth  which  are 
the  constant  associates  of  all  that  is  even  most  weak  and  erring  in  the 
character  of  its  hero,  and  pass  over  the  rude  adventure  and  scurrile 
jest  in  haste— perhaps  in  pain,  to  penetrate  beneath  the  rusty  corselet, 
and  catch  from  the  wandering  glance  the  evidence  and  expression  of 
fortitude,  self-devotion,  and  universal  love.  So,  again,  with  the  works 
of  Scott  and  Byron  ;  popularity  was  as  instant  as  it  was  deserved,  be- 
cause there  is  in  them  an  appeal  to  those  passions  which  are  universal 
in  all  men,  as  well  as  all  expression  of  such  thoughts  as  can  be  re- 
ceived only  by  the  few.  But  they  are  admired  by  the  majority  of  their 
advocates  for  the  weakest  parts  of  their  works,  as  a  popular  preacher 
by  the  majority  of  his  congregation  for  the  worst  part  of  his  sermoji. 

The  process  is  rapid  and  certain,  when,  though  there  may  be  little 
to  catch  the  multitude  at  once,  there  is  much  which  they  can  enjoy  when 
their  attention  is  authoritatively  directed  to  it.  So  rests  the  reputa- 
tion of  Shakspeare.  No  ordinary  mind  can  comprehend  wherein  his 
undisputed  superiority  consists,  but  there  is  yet  quite  as  much  to 
amuse,  thrill,  or  excite, — quite  as  much  of  what  is,  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  word,  dramatic,  in  his  works  as  in  any  one  else's.    They  were 


70  INTRODTJGTORT. 

But  when  this  process  has  taken  place,  and  the  work  has 
become  sanctified  by  time  in  the  minds  of  men,  it  is  impos- 
sible that  any  new  work  of  equal  merit  can  be  impartially 
compared  with  it,  except  by  minds  not  only  educated  and 
§  2.  And  there-  generally  capable  of  appreciating  merit,  but 
when  once^^^^  strong  euough  to  shake  off  the  weight  of  preju- 
formed.  (Jxce  and  association,  which  invariably  incline 

them  to  the  older  favorite.  It  is  much  easier,  says  Barry, 
to  repeat  the  character  recorded  of  Phidias,  than  to  in- 
vestigate the  merits  of  Agasias.  And  when,  as  peculiarly 
in  the  case  of  painting,  much  knowledge  of  what  is  tech- 
nical and  practical  is  necessary  to  a  right  judgment,  so 
that  those  alone  are  competent  to  pronounce  a  true  ver- 
dict who  are  themselves  the  persons  to  be  judged,  and  who 
therefore  can  give  no  opinion,  centuries  may  elapse  before 


received,  therefore,  when  first  written,  with  average  approval,  as 
works  of  common  merit ;  but  when  the  high  decision  was  made,  and 
the  circle  spread,  the  public  took  up  the  hue  and  cry  conscientiously 
enough.  Let  them  have  daggers,  ghosts,  clowns,  and  kings,  and  with 
such  real  and  definite  sources  of  enjoyment,  they  will  take  the  addi- 
tional trouble  to  learn  half  a  dozen  quotations,  without  understanding 
them,  and  admit  the  superiority  of  Shakspeare  without  further  de- 
mur. Nothing,  perhaps,  can  more  completely  demonstrate  the  total 
ignorance  of  the  public  of  all  that  is  great  or  valuable  in  Shakspeare 
than  their  universal  admiration  of  Maclise's  Hamlet. 

The  process  is  impossible  when  there  is  in  the  work  nothing  to  at- 
tract and  something  to  disgust  the  vulgar  mind.  Neither  their  intrin- 
sic excellence,  nor  the  authority  of  those  who  can  judge  of  it,  will  ever 
make  the  poems  of  Wordsworth  or  George  Herbert  popular,  in  the 
sense  in  which  Scott  and  Byron  are  popular,  because  it  is  to  the  vul- 
gar a  labor  instead  of  a  pleasure  to  read  them  ;  and  there  are  parts  in 
them  which  to  such  judges  cannot  but  be  vapid  or  ridiculous.  Most 
works  of  the  highest  art, — those  of  Raffaelle,  M.  Angelo,  or  Da  Vinci, 
—stand  as  Shakspeare  does, — that  which  is  commonplace  and  feeble 
in  their  excellence  being  taken  for  its  essence  by  the  uneducated,  im- 
agination assisting  the  impression,  (for  we  readily  fancy  that  we  feel, 
wh  n  feeling  is  a  matter  of  pride  or  conscience,)  and  affectation  and 
pretension  increasing  the  noise  of  the  rapture,  if  not  its  degree.  Giotto, 
Orgagna,  Angelico,  Perugino,  stand,  like  George  Herbert,  only  with  the 
few.  Wilkie  becomes  popular,  like  Scott,  because  he  touches  passions 
which  all  feel,  and  expresses  truths  which  all  can  recognize. 


INTHODUCTORT, 


71 


fair  comparison  can  be  made  between  two  artists  of  different 
ages  ;  while  the  patriarchal  excellence  exercises  during  the 
interval  a  tyrannical — perhaps,  even  a  blighting,  influence 
over  the  minds,  both  of  the  public  and  of  those  to  whom, 
properly  understood,  it  should  serve  for  a  guide  and  ex- 
ample. In  no  city  of  Europe  where  art  is  a  subject  of  atten- 
tion, are  its  prospects  so  hopeless,  or  its  pursuits  so  result- 
less,  as  in  Rome  ;  because  there,  among  all  students,  the 
authority  of  their  predecessors  in  art  is  supreme  and  without 
appeal,  and  the  mindless  copyist  studies  Raffaelle,  but  not 
what  Raffaelle  studied.  It  thus  becomes  the  duty  of  every 
one  capable  of  demonstrating  any  definite  points  of  superi- 
ority in  modern  art,  and  who  is  in  a  position  in  which  his 
doing  so  will  not  be  ungraceful,  to  encounter  without  hesita- 
§  3.  The  author's  tion  whatever  opprobrium  may  fall  upon  him 
posing\t^n  par^  from  the  ncccssary  prejudice  even  of  the  most 
ticuiar instances,  candid  minds,  and  from  the  far  more  virulent 
opposition  of  those  who  have  no  hope  of  maintaining 
their  own  reputation  for  discernment  but  in  the  support 
of  that  kind  of  consecrated  merit  which  may  be  ap- 
plauded without  an  inconvenient  necessity  for  reasons.  It 
is  my  purpose,  therefore,  believing  that  there  are  certain 
points  of  superiority  in  modern  artists,  and  especially  in  one 
or  two  of  their  number,  which  have  not  yet  been  fully  un- 
derstood, except  by  those  who  are  scarcely  in  a  position 
admitting  the  declaration  of  their  conviction,  to  institute  a 
close  comparison  between  the  great  works  of  ancient  and 
modern  landscape  art,  to  raise,  as  far  as  possible,  the  decep- 
tive veil  of  imaginary  light  through  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  gaze  upon  the  patriarchal  work,  and  to  show  the 
real  relations,  whether  favorable  or  otherwise,  subsisting 
between  it  and  our  own.  I  am  fully  aware  that  this  is  not  to 
be  done  lightly  or  rashly  ;  that  it  is  the  part  of  every  one 
proposing  to  undertake  such  a  task  strictly  to  examine,  with 
prolonged  doubt  and  severe  trial,  every  opinion  in  any  way 
contrary  to  the  sacred  verdict  of  time,  and  to  advance 
nothing  which  does  not,  at  least  in  his  own  conviction,  rest 
on  surer  arround  than  mere  feelinor  or  taste.     I  have  accord- 


72 


INTBODUGTORY. 


ingly  advanced  nothing  in  the  following  pages  but  with 
accompanying  demonstration,  which  may  indeed  be  true 
or  false — complete  or  conditional,  but  which  can 
lotnS capaweof  Only  be  met  on  its  own  grounds,  and  can  in 
demonstration.  borne  down  or  affected  by  mere  au- 

thority of  great  names.  Yet  even  thus  I  should  scarcely 
have  ventured  to  speak  so  decidedly  as  I  have,  but  for  my 
full  conviction  that  we  ought  not  to  class  the  historical 
painters  of  the  fifteenth,  and  landscape  painters  of  the 
seventeenth,  centuries,  together,  under  the  general  title  of 
old  masters,"  as  if  they  possessed  anything  like  corre- 
sponding rank  in  their  respective  walks  of  art.  I  feel 
assured  that  the  principles  on  which  they  worked  are  totally 
opposed,  and  that  the  landscape  painters  have  been  honored 
only  because  they  exhibited  in  mechanical  and  technical 
qualities  some  semblance  of  the  manner  of  the  nobler  his- 
torical painters,  whose  principles  of  conception  and  compo- 
sition they  entirely  reversed.  The  course  of  study  which 
has  led  me  reverently  to  the  feet  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Da 
Vinci,  has  alienated  me  gradually  from  Claude  and  Gaspar 
— I  cannot  at  the  same  time  do  homage  to  power  and  petti- 
ness— to  the  truth  of  consummate  science,  and  the  manner- 
ism of  undisciplined  imagination.  And  let  it  be  understood 
that  whenever  hereafter  I  speak  depreciatingly  of  the  old 
masters  as  a  body,  I  refer  to  none  of  the  historical  painters, 
for  whom  I  entertain  a  veneration,  which  though  I  hope 
reasonable  in  its  grounds,  is  almost  superstitious  in  degree. 
Neither,  unless  he  be  particularly  mentioned,  do  I  intend  to 
include  Nicholas  Poussin,  whose  landscapes  have  a  separate 
and  elevated  character,  which  renders  it  necessary  to  con- 
sider them  apart  from  all  others.  Speaking  generally  of  the 
older  masters,  I  refer  only  to  Claude,  Gaspar,  Poussin,  Salva- 
tor  Rosa,  Cuyp,  Berghem,  Both,  Ruysdael,  Hobbima,  Teniers, 
(in  his  landscapes,)  P.  Potter,  Canaletti,  and  the  various  Van 
somethings,  and  Back  somethings,  more  especially  and 
malignantly  those  who  have  libelled  the  sea. 

It  will  of  course  be  necessary  for  me,  in  the  commence- 
ment of  the  work  to  state  briefly  those  principles  on  which 


INTRODUCTORY. 


73 


I  conceive  all  right  judgment  of  art  must  be  founded.  • 
These  introductory  chapters  I  should  wish  to  be  read  care- 
fully, because  all  criticism  must  be  useless  when  the  terms  or 
grounds  of  it  are  in  any  degree  ambiguous  ;  and  the  ordin- 
ary language  of  connoisseurs  and  critics,  granting  that  they 
understand  it  themselves,  is  usually  mere  jargon  to  others, 
from  their  custom  of  using  technical  terms,  by  which  every- 
thing is  meant,  and  nothing  is  expressed. 
§  5.  The  author's  And  if,  in  the  application  t)f  these  principles, 
eruto&u^"  in  spite  of  my  endeavor  to  render  it  impartial, 
the  feeling  and  fondness  which  I  have  for  some 
works  of  modern  art  escape  me  sometimes  where  it 
should  not,  let  it  be  pardoned  as  little  more  than  a  fair 
counterbalance  to  that  peculiar  veneration  with  which  the 
work  of  the  older  master,  associated  as  it  has  ever  been 
in  our  ears  with  the  expression  of  whatever  is  great  or  per- 
fect, must  be  usually  regarded  by  the  reader.  I  do  not  say 
that  this  veneration  is  wrong,  nor  that  we  should  be  less  at- 
tentive to  the  repeated  words  of  time  :  but  let  us  not  forget, 
that  if  honor  be  for  the  dead,  gratitude  can  only  be  for  the 
living.  He  who  has  once  stood  beside  the  grave,  to  look 
back  upon  the  companionship  which  has  been  forever  closed, 
feeling  how  impotent  there  are  the  wild  love,  or  the  keen 
sorrow,  to  give  one  instant's  pleasure  to  the  pulseless  heart, 
or  atone  in  the  lowest  measure  to  the  departed  spirit  for  the 
hour  of  unkindness,  will  scarcely  for  the  future  incur  that 
debt  to  the  heart,  which  can  only  be  discharged  to  the  dust. 
But  the  lesson  which  men  receive  as  individuals,  they  do  not 
learn  as  nations.  Again  and  again  they  have  seen  their 
noblest  descend  into  the  grave,  and  have  thought  it  enough 
to  garland  the  tombstone  when  they  had  not  crowned  the 
brow,  and  to  pay  the  honor  to  the  ashes  which  they  had 
denied  to  the  spirit.  Let  it  not  displease  them  that  they  are 
bidden,  amidst  the  tumult  and  the  dazzle  of  their  busy  life, 
to  listen  for  the  few  voices,  and  watch  for  the  few  lamps, 
which  God  has  toned  and  lighted  to  charm  and  to  guide 
them,  that  they  may  not  learn  their  sweetness  by  their 
silence,  nor  their  light  by  their  decay. 


74  DEFINITION  OF  GREATNESS  IN  ABT. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DEFINITION  OF  GREATNESS  IN  ART. 

In  the  15th  Lecture  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  incidental 
notice  is  taken  of  the  distinction  between  those  excellences 
in  the  painter  which  belong  to  him  as  such,  and  those  which 
§  1.  Distinction  belong  to  him  in  common  with  all  men  of  intel- 
painter^s  ^^intei-  ^^^^5  general  and  exalted  powers  of  which 
and"^^  technical  evidence  and  expression,  not  the  sub- 

knowiedge.  ject.  But  the  distinction  is  not  there  dwelt 
upon  as  it  should  be,  for  it  is  owing  to  the  slight  attention 
ordinarily  paid  to  it,  that  criticism  is  open  to  every  form 
of  coxcombry,  and  liable  to  every  phase  of  error.  It  is  a 
distinction  on  which  depend  all  sound  judgment  of  the 
rank  of  the  artist,  and*  all  just  appreciation  of  the  dignity 
of  art. 

§2.  Painting,  as  Painting,  or  art  generally,  as  such,  with  all 
mo^L' 'LLf  Yan?  technicalities,  difficulties,  and  particular 
guage.  ends,  is  nothing  but  a  noble  and  expressive  lan- 

guage, invaluable  as  the  vehicle  of  thought,  but  by  itself  noth- 
ing. He  who  has  learned  what  is  commonly  considered  the 
whole  art  of  painting,  that  is,  the  art  of  representing  any 
natural  object  faithfully,  has  as  yet  only  learned  the  lan- 
guage by  which  his  thoughts  are  to  be  expressed.  He  has 
done  just  as  much  towards  being  that  which  we  ought  to 
respect  as  a  great  painter,  as  a  man  who  has  learned  how  to 
express  himself  grammatically  and  melodiously  has  towards 
being  a  great  poet.  The  language  is,  indeed,  more  difficult 
of  acquirement  in  the  one  case  than  in  the  other,  and  pos- 
sesses more  power  of  delighting  the  sense,  while  it  speaks 
to  the  intellect,  but  it  is,  nevertlicless,  nothing  more  than 
language,  and  all  those  excellences  which  are  peculiar  to 
the  painter  as  such,  are  merely  what  rhythm,  melody,  pre- 
cision and  force  are  in  the  words  of  the  orator  and  the  poet, 
necessary  to  their  great nt^ss,  but  not  the  test  of  their  great- 


DEFINITION  OF  GREATNESS  IN  ART,  75 


ness.  It  is  not  by  the  mode  of  representing  and  saying, 
but  by  what  is  represented  and  said,  that  the  respective 
greatness  either  of  the  painter  or  the  writer  is  to  be  finally 
determined. 

§  3  "Painter"  Speaking  with  strict  propriety,  therefore,  we 
a  term  corres-  ghould  Call  a  man  a  srreat  painter  only  as  he  ex- 

pondmg  to "  ver-  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^      ^  ^ 

sifier."  celled  in  precision  and  force  in  the  language  of 

lines,  and  a  great  versifier,  as  he  excelled  in  precision  or  force 
in  the  language  of  words.  A  great  poet  would  then  be  a 
term  strictly,  and  in  precisely  the  same  sense  applicable  to 
both,  if  warranted  by  the  character  of  the  images  or  thoughts 
which  each  in  their  respective  languages  convey. 

Take,  for  instance,  one  of  the  most  perfect 

§  4.  Example  in  '  /T  o.!.  j 

a  painting  of  E.  pocms  or  pictures  (1  use  the  words  as  synony- 

Landseer's.  \        i  •   i  ^  .  •  i  .^ 

mous)  w^hich  modern  times  have  seen  :  — the 
"  Old  Shepherd's  Chief-mourner."  Here  the  exquisite  execu- 
tion of  the  glossy  and  crisp  hair  of  the  dog,  the  bright,  sharp 
touching  of  the  green  bough  beside  it,  the  clear  painting  of 
the  wood  of  the  coffin  and  the  folds  of  the  blanket,  are  lan- 
guage— language  clear  and  expressive  in  the  highest  degree. 
But  the  close  pressure  of  the  dog's  breast  against  the  wood, 
the  convulsive  clinging  of  the  paws,  which  has  dragged  the 
blanket  off  the  trestle,  the  total  powerlessness  of  the  head 
laid,  close  and  motionless,  upon  its  folds,  the  fixed  and  tear- 
ful fall  of  the  eye  in  its  utter  hopelessness,  the  rigidity  of 
repose  which  marks  that  there  has  been  no  motion  nor  change 
in  the  trance  of  agony  since  the  last  blow  was  struck  on  the 
coffin-lid,  the  quietness  and  gloom  of  the  chamber,  the  spec- 
tacles marking  the  place  where  the  Bible  was  last  closed, 
indicating  how  lonely  has  been  the  life — how  unwatched  the 
departure  of  him  who  is  now  laid  solitary  in  his  sleep  ; — 
these  are  all  thoughts — thoughts  by  which  the  picture  is 
separated  at  once  from  hundreds  of  equal  merit,  as  far  as 
mere  painting  goes,  by  which  it  ranks  as  a  work  of  high  art, 
and  stamps  its  author,  not  as  the  neat  imitator  of  the  tex- 
ture of  a  skin,  or  the  fold  of  a  drapery,  but  as  the  Man 
of  Mind. 

It  is  not,  however,  always  easy,  either  in  painting  or 


76 


DEFINITION  OF  GREATNESS  IN  ART. 


literature,  to  determine  where  the  influence  of  language 
stops,  and  where  that  of  thought  begins.    Many  thoughts 
5  D'ffi  It  of  dependent  upon  the  language  in  which 

fixing  an  exact  they  are  clothed,  that  they  would  lose  half  their 
language  and  bcauty  if  Otherwise  expressed.  But  the  highest 
thought,  thoughts  are  those  which  are  least  dependent  on 

language,  and  the  dignity  of  any  composition  and  praise  to 
which  it  is  entitled,  are  in  exact  proportion  to  its  independ- 
ency of  language  or  expression.  A  composition  is  indeed 
usually  most  perfect,  when  to  such  intrinsic  dignity  is 
added  all  that  expression  can  do  to  attract  and  adorn  ;  but 
in  every  case  of  supreme  excellence  this  all  becomes  as  noth- 
ing. We  are  more  gratified  by  the  simplest  lines  or  words 
which  can  suggest  the  idea  in  its  own  naked  beauty,  than  by 
the  robe  or  the  gem  which  conceal  while  they  decorate  ;  we 
are  better  pleased  to  feel  by  their  absence  how  little  they 
could  bestow,  than  by  their  presence  how  much  they  can 
destroy. 

§6.  Distinction  There  is  therefore  a  distinction  to  be  made 
tive  aiKi  expres-  between  wliat  is  ornamental  in  language  and 
sive  language.  what  is  expressive.  That  part  of  it  which  is 
necessary  to  the  embodying  and  conveying  the  thought  is 
worthy  of  respect  and  attention  as  necessar}'-  to  excellence, 
though  not  the  test  of  it.  But  that  part  of  it  which  is  deco- 
rative has  little  more  to  do  with  the  intrinsic  excellence  of 
the  picture  than  the  frame  or  the  varnishing  of  it.  And  this 
caution  in  distinguishing  between  the  ornamental  and  the 
expressive  is  peculiarly  necessary  in  painting  ;  for  in  the 
language  of  words  it  is  nearly  impossible  for  that  which  is 
not  expressive  to  be  beautiful,  except  by  mere  rhythm  or 
melody,  any  sacrifice  to  which  is  immediately  stigmatized  as 
error.  But  the  beauty  of  mere  language  in  painting  is  not 
only  very  attractive  and  entertaining  to  the  spectator,  but 
requires  for  its  attainment  no  small  exertion  of  mind  and 
devotion  of  time  by  the  artist.  Hence,  in  art,  men  have  fre- 
quently fancied  that  they  were  becoming  rhetoricians  and 
poets  when  they  were  only  learning  to  speak  melodiously, 
and  the  judge  has  over  and  over  again  advanced  to  the  honor 


DEFINITION  OF  OBEATNESS  IN  ART.  77 


of  authors  those  who  were  never  more  than  ornamental 
writing-masters. 

§  7.  Instance  in  Most  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school,  for  instance, 
eariy^ttiian^""^  excepting  always  those  of  Rubens,  Vandyke,  and 
schools.  Rembrandt,  are  ostentatious  exhibitions  of  the 

artist's  power  of  speech,  the  clear  and  vigorous  elocution  of 
useless  and  senseless  words  :  while  the  early  efforts  of  Cima- 
bue  and  Giotto  are  the  burning  messages  of  prophecy,  de- 
livered by  the  stammering  lips  of  infants.  It  is  not  by  rank- 
ing the  former  as  more  than  mechanics,  or  the  latter  as  less 
than  artists,  that  the  taste  of  the  multitude,  always  awake  to 
the  lowest  pleasures  which  art  can  bestow,  and  blunt  to  the 
highest,  is  to  be  formed  or  elevated.  It  must  be  the  part  of 
the  judicious  critic  carefully  to  distinguish  what  is  language, 
and  what  is  thought,  and  to  rank  and  praise  pictures  chiefly 
for  the  latter,  considering  the  former  as  a  totally  inferior  ex- 
cellence, and  one  which  cannot  be  compared  with  nor  weighed 
against  thought  in  any  way  nor  in  any  degree  whatsoever. 
The  picture  which  has  the  nobler  and  more  numerous  ideas, 
however  awkwardly  expressed,  is  a  greater  and  a  better  pict- 
ure than  that  which  has  the  less  noble  and  less  numerous 
ideas,  however  beautifully  expressed.  No  weight,  nor  mass, 
nor  beauty  of  execution  can  outweigh  one  grain  or  fragment 
of  thought.  Three  penstrokes  of  Raffaelle  are  a  greater 
and  a  better  picture  than  the  most  finished  work  that  ever 
Carlo  Dolci  polished  into  inanity.  A  finished  work  of  a  great 
artist  is  only  better  than  its  sketch,  if  the  sources  of  pleasure 
belonging  to  color  and  realization — valuable  in  themselves, — • 
are  so  employed  as  to  increase  the  impressiveness  of  the 
thought.  But  if  one  atom  of  thought  has  vanished,  all  color, 
all  finish,  all  execution,  all  ornament,  are  too  dearly  bought. 
Nothing  but  thought  can  pay  for  thought,  and  the  instant 
that  the  increasing  refinement  or  finish  of  the  picture  begins 
to  be  paid  for  by  the  loss  of  the  faintest  shadow  of  an  idea, 
that  instant  all  refinement  or  finish  is  an  excrescence  and  a 
deformity. 

Yet  although  in  all  our  speculations  on  art,  language  is 
thus  to  be  distinguished  from,  and  held  subordinate  to,  that 


78 


DEFINITION  OF  GBEATNE88  IN  ART. 


which  it  conveys,  we  must  still  remember  that  there  are 
certain  ideas  inherent  in  language  itself,  and  that  strictly 
§8  Yet  there  are  Speaking,  every  pleasure  connected  with  art  has 
certain  ideas  be-  in  it  some  reference  to  the  intellect.    The  mere 

lonecing  to  lan- 
guage itself.       sensual  pleasure  of  the  eye,  received  from  the 

most  brilliant  piece  of  coloring,  is  as  nothing  to  that  which  it 
receives  from  a  crystal  prism,  except  as  it  depends  on  our 
perception  of  a  certain  meaning  and  intended  arrangement  of 
color,  which  has  been  the  subject  of  intellect.  Nay,  the  term 
idea,  according  to  Locke's  definition  of  it,  will  extend  even 
to  the  sensual  impressions  themselves  as  far  as  they  are 
"things  which  the  mind  occupies  itself  about  in  thinking," 
that  is,  not  as  they  are  felt  by  the  eye  only,  but  as  they  are 
§  9.  The  defini-  received  by  the  mind  through  the  eye.  So  that, 
if  I  say  that  the  greatest  picture  is  that  which 
conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  spectator  the  greatest  number  of 
the  greatest  ideas,  I  have  a  definition  which  will  include  as 
subjects  of  comparison  every  pleasure  which  art  is  capable  of 
conveying.  If  I  were  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  best 
picture  was  that  which  most  closely  imitated  nature,  I  should 
assume  that  art  could  only  please  by  imitating  nature,  and  I 
should  cast  out  of  the  pale  of  criticism  those  parts  of  works 
of  art  which  are  not  imitative,  that  is  to  say,  intrinsic  beau- 
ties of  color  and  form,  and  those  works  of  art  wholly,  which, 
like  the  arabesques  of  Raffaelle  in  the  Loggias,  are  not  imi- 
tative at  all.  Now  I  want  a  definition  of  art  wide  enough  to 
include  all  its  varieties  of  aim  ;  I  do  not  say  therefore  that 
the  art  is  greatest  which  gives  most  pleasure,  because  per- 
haps there  is  some  art  whose  end  is  to  teach,  and  not  to 
please.  I  do  not  say  that  the  art  is  greatest  which  teaches 
us  most,  because  perhaps  there  is  some  art  whose  end  is  to 
please,  and  not  to  teach.  I  do  not  say  that  the  art  is  great- 
est which  imitates  best,  because  perhaps  there  is  some  art 
whose  end  is  to  create,  and  not  to  imitate.  But  I  say  that 
the  art  is  greatest,  which  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  spec- 
tator, V)y  any  means  whatsoever,  the  greatest  number  of  the 
greatest  ideas,  and  I  call  an  idea  great  in  proportion  as  it  is 
received  by  a  higher  faculty  of  the  mind,  and  as  it  more  fully 


OF  IDEAS  OF  POWER, 


79 


occupies,  and  in  occupying,  exercises  and  exalts,  the  faculty 
by  which  it  is  received. 

If  this  then  be  the  definition  of  great  art,  that  of  a  great 
artist  naturally  follows.  He  is  the  greatest  artist  who  has 
embodied,  in  the  sum  of  his  works,  the  greatest  number  of 
the  greatest  ideas. 


CHAPTER  in. 

OF  IDEAS   OF  POWER. 

The  definition  of  art  which  I  have  just  given,  requires  me 
to  determine  what  kinds  of  ideas  can  be  received  from  works 
of  art,  and  which  of  these  are  the  greatest,  before  proceed- 
ing* to  any  practical  application  of  the  test. 

§1.  What  classes       %       .   /   ,  i     .      n   1.1.  £  ^ 

of  ideas  are  con-  I  thmk  that  all  the  sourccs  ot  pleasure,  or 
veyabie  by  art.  other  good,  to  be  derived  from  works  of 

art,  may  be  referred  to  five  distinct  heads. 

I.  Ideas  of  Power. — The  perception  or  conception  of 
the  mental  or  bodily  powers  by  which  the  work  has 
been  produced. 
11.  Ideas  of  Imitation. — The  perception  that  the  thing 
produced  resembles  something  else. 

III.  Ideas  of  Truth. — The  perception  of  faithfulness  in  a 

statement  of  facts  by  the  thing  produced. 

IV.  Ideas  of  Beauty. — The  perception  of  beauty,  either 

in  the  thing  produced,  or  in  what  it  suggests  or 
resembles. 

V.  Ideas  of  Relation. — The  perception  of  intellectual 
relations,  in  the  thing  produced,  or  in  what  it  sug- 
gests or  resembles.  ' 
I  shall  briefly  distinguish  the  nature  and  effects  of  each 
of  these  classes  of  ideas. 

I.  Ideas  of  Power. — These  are  the  simple 

§2.  Ideasof  pow-  .  „     ,  ,  , 

er  vary  much  in  perception  oi  the  mental  or  bodily  powers  ex- 
reiative  dignity.  ^j^^  productioii  of  any  work  of  art. 


80 


OF  IDEAS  OF  POWER. 


According  to  the  dignity  and  degree  of  the  power  perceived 
is  the  dignity  of  the  idea  ;  but  the  whole  class  of  ideas  is 
received  by  the  intellect,  and  they  excite  the  best  of  the 
moral  feelings,  veneration,  and  the  desire  of  exertion.  As 
a  species,  therefore,  they  are  one  of  the  noblest  connected 
with  art  ;  but  the  differences  in  degree  of  dignity  among 
themselves  are  infinite,  being  correspondent  with  every 
order  of  power, — from  that  of  the  fingers  to  that  of  the 
most  exalted  intqjlect.  Thus,  when  we  see  an  Indian's 
paddle  carved  from  the  handle  to  the  blade,  we  have  a  con- 
ception of  prolonged  manual  labor,  and  are  gratified  in  pro- 
portion to  the  supposed  expenditure  of  time  and  exertion. 
These  are,  indeed,  powers  of  a  low  order,  yet  the  pleasure 
arising  from  the  conception  of  them  enters  very  largely  in- 
deed into  our  admiration  of  all  elaborate  ornament,  archi- 
tectural decoration,  etc.  The  delight  with  which  we  look 
on  the  fretted  front  of  Rouen  Cathedral  depends  in  no  small 
degree  on  the  simple  perception  of  time  employed  and  labor 
expended  in  its  production.  But  it  is  a  right,  that  is,  an 
ennobling  pleasure,  even  in  this  its  lowest  phase  ;  and  even 
the  pleasure  felt  by  those  persons  who  praise  a  drawing  for 
its  "  finish,"  or  its  work,"  which  is  one  precisely  of  the 
same  kind,  would  be  right,  if  it  did  not  imply  a  want  of 
perception  of  the  higher  powers  which  render  work  unneces- 
sary. If  to  the  evidence  of  labor  be  added  that  of  strength 
or  dexterity,  the  sensation  of  power  is  yet  increased  ;  if  to 
strength  and  dexterity  be  added  that  of  ingenuity  and  judg- 
ment, it  is  multiplied  tenfold,  and  so  on,  through  all  the 
subjects  of  action  of  body  or  mind,  we  receive  the  more 
exalted  pleasure  from  the  more  exalted  power. 
§3.  But  are  re-  So  far  the  nature  and  effects  of  ideas  of 
whlteveJ^Tas  powcr  cannot  but  be  admitted  by  all.  But  the 
orpowerf^^ih'e  circumstance  which  I  wish  especially  to  insist 
wo?ci exce?^  upon,  with  rcspcct  to  them,  is  one  which  may 
lence."  ^xot^  perhaps,  be  so  readily  allowed,  namely, 

that  they  arc  indej)endent  of  the  nature  or  worthiness  ol: 
the  object  from  which  they  are  received,  and  that  whatever 
Las  been  the  subject  of  a  great  power,  whether  there  be  in- 


OF  IDEAS  OF  POWER,* 


81 


trinsic  and  apparent  worthiness  in  itself  or  not,  bears  with 
it  the  evidence  of  having  been  so,  and  is  capable  of  giving 
the  ideas  of  power,  and  the  consequent  pleasures,  in  their 
full  degree.  For  observe,  that  a  thing  is  not  properly  said 
to  have  been  the  result  of  a  great  power,  on  which  only 
some  part  of  that  power  has  been  expended.  A  nut  may  be 
cracked  by  a  steam-engine,  but  it  has  not,  in  being  so,  been 
the  subject  of  the  power  of  the  engine.  And  thus  it  is 
falsely  said  of  great  men,  that  they  waste  their  lofty  powers 
on  unworthy  objects  :  the  object  may  be  dangerous  or  use- 
less, but,  as  far  as  the  phrase  has  reference  to  difficulty  of 
performance,  it  cannot  be  unworthy  of  the  power  which  it 
brings  into  exertion,  because  nothing  can  become  a  subject 
of  action  to  a  greater  power  which  can  be  accomplished  by 
a  less,  any  more  than  bodily  strength  can  be  exerted  where 
there  is  nothing  to  resist  it. 

So  then,  men  may  let  their  great  powers  lie  dormant, 
while  they  employ  their  mean  and  petty  powers  on  mean 
and  petty  objects  ;  but  it  is  physically  impossible  to  employ 
a  great  power,  except  on  a  great  object.  Consequently, 
wherever  power  of  any  kind  or  degree  has  been  exerted,  the 
marks  and  evidence  of  it  are  stamped  upon  its  results  :  it  is 
impossible  that  it  should  be  lost  or  wasted,  or  without 
record,  even  in  the  ^'estimation  of  a  hair  and  therefore, 
whatever  has  been  the  subject  of  a  great  power  bears  about 
with  it  the  image  of  that  which  created  it,  and  is  what  is 
commonly  called  "  excellent."  And  this  is  the  true  meaning 
of  the  word  excellent,  as  distinguished  from  the  terms, 
"  beautiful,"  "  useful,"  good,"  etc.;  and  we  shall  always, 
in  future,  use  the  word  excellent,  as  signifying  that  the 
thing  to  which  it  is  applied  required  a  great  power  for  its 
production.* 

*  Of  course  the  word  excellent "  is  primarily  a  mere  synonym  with 
surpassing,"  and  when  applied  to  persons,  has  the  general  meaning 
given  by  Johnson — "the  state  of  abounding  in  any  good  quality." 
But  when  applied  to  things  it  has  always  reference  to  the  power  by 
which  they  are  produced.  We  talk  of  excellent  music  or  poetry,  be- 
cause it  is  difficult  to  compose  or  write  such,  but  never  of  excellent 
flowers,  because  all  flowers  being  the  result  of  the  same  power,  mutt 
Vol.  L— 6 


82 


-OF  IDEAS  OF  POWER, 


The  faculty  of  j^erceiving  what  powers  are  required  for 
the  production  of  a  thing,  is  the  faculty  of  perceiving  ex- 
§  4.  What  is  ne-  cellcnce.  It  Is  this  faculty  in  which  men,  even 
distil^guisMngof  most  Cultivated  taste,  must  always  be 

excellence.  wanting,  unlcss  they  have  added  practice  to  re- 
flection ;  because  none  can  estimate  the  power  manifested 
in  victory,  unless  they  have  personally  measured  the  strength 
to  be  overcome.  Though,  therefore,  it  is  possible,  by  the 
cultivation  of  sensibility  and  judgment,  to  become  capable 
of  distinguishing  what  is  beautiful,  it  is  totally  impossible, 
without  practice  and  knowledge,  to  distinguish  or  feel  what 
is  excellent.  The  beauty  or  the  truth  of  Titian's  flesh-tint 
may  be  appreciated  by  all  ;  but  it  is  only  to  the  artist, 
whose  multi]3lied  hours  of  toil  have  not  reached  the  slight- 
est resemblance  of  one  of  its  tones,  that  its  excellence  is  man- 
ifest. 

§  5.  The  pleasure  Wherever,  then,  difficulty  has  been  over- 
attendant  on  come,  there  is  excellence  :   and  therefore,  in 

conquering    dif-  '  ' 

Acuities  is  right,  order  to  prove  a  work  excellent,  we  have  only 
to  prove  the  difficulty  of  its  production  :  whether  it  be 
useful  or  beautiful  is  another  question;  its  excellence 
depends  on  its  difficulty  alone.  Nor  is  it  a  false  or  dis- 
eased taste  which  looks  for  the  overcoming  of  difficulties, 
and  has  pleasure  in  it,  even  without  any  view  to  resultant 
good.  It  has  been  made  part  of  our  moral  nature  that  we 
should  have  a  pleasure  in  encountering  and  conquering  op- 
position, for  the  sake  of  the  struggle  and  the  victory,  not 
for  the  sake  of  any  after  result;  and  not  only  our  own  vic- 
tory, but  the  perception  of  that  of  another,  is  in  all  cases  the 
source  of  pure  and  ennobling  pleasure.  And  if  we  often 
hear  it  said,  and  truly  said,  that  an  artist  has  erred  by  seek- 
ino-  rather  to  show  his  skill  in  overcominor  technical  difficul- 

o  o 

be  equally  excelleut.  We  distinguish  them  only  as  beautiful  or  useful, 
and  therefore,  as  there  is  no  other  one  word  to  signify  that  quality  of  a 
thiug  produced  by  which  it  pleases  us  merely  as  the  result  of  power, 
and  as  the  term  "  excellent"  is  more  frequently  used  in  this  sense  than 
in  any  other,  I  choose  to  limit  it  at  once  to  this  sense,  and  I  wish  it, 
when  I  use  it  in  future,  to  be  so  understood. 


OF  IDEAS  OF  IMITATION, 


83 


ties,  than  to  reach  a  great  end,  be  it  observed  that  he  is  only 
blamed  because  he  has  sought  to  conquer  an  inferior  diffi- 
culty rather  than  a  great  one;  for  it  is  much  easier  to  over- 
come technical  difficulties  than  to  reach  a  great  end.  When- 
ever the  visible  victory  over  difficulties  is  found  painful  or 
in  false  taste,  it  is  owing  to  the  preference  of  an  inferior  to 
a  great  difficulty,  or  to  the  false  estimate  of  what  is  difficult 
and  what  is  not.  It  is  far  more  difficult  to  be  simple  than 
to  be  complicated;  far  more  difficult  to  sacrifice  skill  and 
cease  exertion  in  the  proper  place,  than  to  expend  both  in- 
discriminately. We  shall  find,  in  the  course  of  our  investi- 
gation, that  beauty  and  difficulty  go  together;  and  that  they 
are  only  mean  and  paltry  difficulties  which  it  is  wrong  or 
contemptible  to  wrestle  with.  Be  it  remembered  then — 
Power  is  never  wasted.  Whatever  power  has  been  em- 
ployed, produces  excellence  in  proportion  to  its  own  dignity 
and  exertion;  and  the  faculty  of  perceiving  this  exertion, 
and  appreciating  this  dignity,  is  the  faculty  of  perceiving 
excellence. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


OF  IDEAS  OF  IMITATION. 


FusELi,  in  his  lectures,  and  many  other  persons  of  equally 
just  and  accurate  habits  of  thought,  (among  others,  S.  T. 
Coleridge,)  make  a  distinction  between  imitation  and  copy- 
§  1.  False  use  of  ^^g'^  representing  the  first  as  the  legitimate 
tton*"' by'ml^^^^  fuuctiou  of  art— the  latter  as  its  corruption  ; 
writers  of  art.  j^^^  sucli  a  distinction  is  by  no  means  war- 
ranted, or  explained  by  the  common  meaning  of  the  words 
themselves,  it  is  not  easy  to  comprehend  exactly  in  what 
sense  they  are  used  by  those  writers.  And  though,  reason- 
ing from  the  context,  I  can  understand  what  ideas  those 
words  stand  for  in  their  minds,  I  cannot  allow  the  terms 
to  be  properly  used  as   symbols   of   those  ideas,  which 


84 


OF  IDEAS  OF  IMITATION. 


(especially  in  the  case  of  the  word  Imitation)  are  ex- 
ceedingly complex,  and  totally  different  from  what  most 
people  would  understand  by  the  term.  And  by  men  of  less 
accurate  thought,  the  word  is  used  still  more  vaguely  or 
falsely.  For  instance,  Burke  (Treatise  on  the  Sublime,  part 
i.  sect.  16)  says,  When  the  object  represented  in  poetry  or 
painting  is  such  as  we  could  have  no  desire  of  seeing  in  the 
reality,  then  we  may  be  sure  that  its  power  in  poetry  or 
painting  is  owing  to  the  power  of  imitation. '^'^  In  which 
case  the  real  pleasure  may  be  in  what  we  have  been  just 
speaking  of,  the  dexterity  of  the  artist's  hand  ;  or  it  may 
be  in  a  beautiful  or  singular  arrangement  of  colors,  or  a 
thoughtful  chiaroscuro,  or  in  the  pure  beauty  of  certain 
forms  which  art  forces  on  our  notice,  though  we  should  not 
have  observed  them  in  the  reality  ;  and  I  conceive  that 
none  of  these  sources  of  pleasure  are  in  any  way  expressed 
or  intimated  by  the  term  imitation." 

But  there  is  one  source  of  pleasure  in  works  of  art  totally 
different  from  all  these,  which  I  conceive  to  be  properly  and 
accurately  expressed  by  the  word  ''imitation  one  which, 
though  constantly  confused  in  reasoning,  because  it  is  always 
associated  in  fact,  with  other  means  of  pleasure,  is  totally 
separated  from  them  in  its  nature,  and  is  the  real  basis  of 
whatever  complicated  or  various  meaning  may  be  afterwards 
attached  to  the  word  in  the  minds  of  men. 

I  wish  to  point  out  this  distinct  source  of  pleasure  clearly 
at  once,  and  only  to  use  the  word  "  imitation  "  in  reference 
to  it. 

§  2  Real  mean-  Whenever  anything  looks  like  what  it  is  not, 
ing  of  the  term.  i]^q  resemblance  being  so  great  as  nearly  to 
deceive,  we  feel  a  kind  of  pleasurable  surprise,  an  agreeable 
excitement  of  mind,  exactly  the  same  in  its  nature  as  that 
which  we  receive  from  juggling.  Whenever  we  perceive 
this  in  something  produced  by  art,  that  is  to  say,  whenever 
the  work  is  seen  to  resemble  something  which  we  know  it  is 
not,  we  receive  what  I  call  an  idea  of  imitation.  Why  such 
ideas  are  pleasing,  it  would  be  out  of  our  present  purpose 
to  inquire  \  we  only  know  that  there  is  no  man  who  does  not 


OF  IDEAS  OF  IMITATION. 


85 


feel  pleasure  in  his  animal  nature  from  gentle  surprise,  and 
that  such  surprise  can  be  excited  in  no  more  distinct  manner 
than  by  the  evidence  that  a  thing  is  not  what  it  appears  to 
§3.  What  is  re-  be.*  Now  two  things  are  requisite  to  our  com- 
sense^^of^'^iinita-  P^^^e  and  more  pleasurable  perception  of  this  : 
first,  that  the  resemblance  be  so  perfect  as  to 
amount  to  a  deception  ;  secondly,  that  there  be  some 
means  of  proving  at  the  same  moment  that  it  is  a  decep- 
tion. The  most  perfect  ideas  and  pleasures  of  imitation 
are,  therefore,  when  one  sense  is  contradicted  by  another, 
both  bearing  as  positive  evidence  on  the  subject  as  each  is 
capable  of  alone  ;  as  when  the  eye  says  a  thing  is  round, 
^nd  the  finger  says  it  is  flat  ;  they  are,  therefore,  never  felt 
in  so  high  a  degree  as  in  painting,  where  appearance  of  pro- 
jection, rougiiness,  hair,  velvet,  etc.,  are  given  with  a  smooth 
surface,  or  in  wax-work,  where  the  first  evidence  of  the 
senses  is  perpetually  contradicted  by  their  experience  ;  but 
the  moment  we  come  to  marble,  our  definition  checks  us,  for 
a  marble  figure  does  not  look  like  what  it  is  not  :  it  looks 
like  marble,  and  like  the  form  of  a  man,  but  then  it  is  mar- 
ble, and  it  is  the  form  of  a  man.  It  does  not  look  like  a 
man,  which  it  is  not,  but  like  the  form  of  a  man,  which  it  is. 
Form  is  form,  bona  fide  and  actual,  whether  in  marble  or  in 
flesh — not  an  imitation  or  resemblance  of  form,  but  real 
form.  The  chalk  outline  of  the  bough  of  a  tree  on  paper,  is 
not  an  imitation  ;  it  looks  like  chalk  and  paper — not  like 
wood,  and  that  which  it  suggests  to  the  mind  is  not  properly 
said  to  be  like  the  form  of  a  bough,  it  is  the  form  of  a  bough. 
Now,  then,  we  see  the  limits  of  an  idea  of  imitation  ;  it  extends 
only  to  the  sensation  of  trickery  and  deception  occasioned  by 
a  thing's  intentionally  seeming  different  from  what  it  is  ;  and 
the  degree  of  the  pleasure  depends  on  the  degree  of  differ- 
ence and  the  perfection  of  the  resemblance,  not  on  the  nature 
of  the  thing  resembled.  The  simple  pleasure  in  the  imita- 
tion would  be  precisely  of  the  same  degree,  (if  the  accuracy 
could  be  equal,)  whether  the  subject  of  it  were  the  hero  or 
his  horse.  There  are  other  collateral  sources  of  pleasure, 
*  ovWoyi^fius  eTT<7,  otl  tovto  iKuyo. — Arist.  Rhet.  1,  11,  23. 


86 


OF  IDEAS  OF  IMITATION. 


which  are  necessarily  associated  with  this,  but  that  part  of 
the  pleasure  which  depends  on  the  imitation  is  the  same  in 
both. 

§  4.  The  pleasure  Ideas  of  imitation,  then,  act  by  producing  the 
[mitatk)!  ^"th"^  simple  pleasure  of  surprise,  and  that  not  of  sur- 
SbSthat  c?n  be  P^^^^  highest  scusc  and  function,  but  of  the 

derived  from  art.  mean  and  paltry  surprise  which  is  felt  in  jug- 
glery. These  ideas  and  pleasures  are  the  most  contemptible 
which  can  be  received  from  art;  first,  because  it  is  necessary 
to  their  enjoyment  that  the  mind  should  reject  the  impres- 
sion and  address  of  the  thing  represented,  and  fix  itself  only 
upon  the  reflection  that  it  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be.  All 
high  or  noble  emotion  or  thought  are  thus  rendered  physically 
impossible,  while  the  mind  exults  in  what  is  very  like  a  strict- 
ly sensual  pleasure.  We  may  consider  tears  as  a  result  of 
agony  or  of  art,  whichever  we  please,  but  not  of  both  at  the 
same  moment.  If  we  are  surprised  by  them  as  an  attainment 
of  the  one,  it  is  impossible  we  can  be  moved  by  them  as  a  sign 
of  the  other. 

Ideas  of  imitation  are  contemptible  in  the 
only  orcontem^  sccond  placc,  because  not  only  do  they  preclude 
tibie  subjects.  spectator  from  enjoying  inherent  beauty  in 

the  subject,  but  they  can  only  be  received  from  mean  and 
paltry  subjects,  because  it  is  impossible  to  imitate  anything 
really  great.  We  can  "  paint  a  cat  or  a  fiddle,  so  that  they 
look  as  if  we  could  take  them  up;  "  but  we  cannot  imitate 
the  ocean,  or  the  Alps.  We  can  imitate  fruit,  but  not  a  tree; 
flowers,  but  not  a  pasture;  cut-glass,  but  not  the  rainbow. 
All  pictures  in  which  deceptive  powers  of  imitation  are  dis- 
played are  therefore  either  of  contemptible  subjects,  or  have 
the  imitation  shown  in  contemptibly  parts  of  them,  bits  of 
dress,  jewels,  furniture,  etc. 

Thirdly,  these  ideas  are  contemptible,  because 
cont(;mptibie  be-  nO  ideas  of  power  are  associated  with  them;  to 
caube  It  lb  easy.  ^|^^  ignorant,  imitation,  indeed,  seems  difficult, 
and  its  success  praiseworthy,  but  even  they  can  by  no  possi- 
bility see  more  in  the  artist  than  they  do  in  a  juggler,  who 
arrives  at  a  strange  end  by  means  with  which  they  are  unac- 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH. 


87 


quainted.  To  the  instructed,  the  juggler  is  by  far  the  more 
respectable  artist  of  the  two,  for  they  know  sleight  of  hand 
to  be  an  art  of  immensely  more  difficult  acquirement,  and  to 
imply  more  ingenuity  in  the  artist  than  a  power  of  deceptive 
imitation  in  painting,  which  requires  nothing  more  for  its 
attainment  than  a  true  eye,  a  steady  hand,  and  moderate  in- 
dustry— qualities  which  in  no  degree  separate  the  imitative 
artist  from  a  watch-maker,  pin-maker,  or  any  other  neat- 
handed  artificer.  These  remarks  do  not  apply  to  the  art  of 
the  Diorama,  or  the  stage,  where  the  pleasure  is  not  depend- 
ent on  the  imitation,  but  is  the  same  which  we  should  receive 
from  nature  herself,  only  far  inferior  in  degree.  It  is  a  noble 
pleasure  ;  but  we  shall  see  in  the  course  of  our  investigation, 
both  that  it  is  inferior  to  that  which  we  receive  when  there  is 
no  deception  at  all,  and  why  it  is  so. 

Whenever  then  in  future,  I  speak  of  ideas  of  imitation,  I 
wish  to  be  understood  to  mean  the  immediate  and  present  per- 
§7  Recapituia  ^^^P^^^^  ^^^^  Something  produced  by  art  is  not 
tion.  what  it  seems  to  be.    I  prefer  saying     that  it 

is  not  what  it  seems  to  be,"  to  saying  "  that  it  seems  to  be 
what  it  is  not,"  because  we  perceive  at  once  what  it  seems  to 
be,  and  the  idea  of  imitation,  and  the  consequent  pleasure, 
result  from  the  subsequent  perception  of  its  being  something 
else — flat,  for  instance,  when  we  thought  it  was  round. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF  IDEAS  OF  TEUTH. 

The  word  truth,  as  applied  to  art,  signifies  the  faithful 
statement,  either  to  the  mind  or  senses,  of  any  fact  of 
nature. 

^ ,        .     ^       We  receive  an  idea  of  truth,  then,  when  we 

§  1,  Meaning  of  .  ,  ' 

the  word  "truth"     perccive  the  faithfulness  of  such  a  statement. 

as  applied  to  art.        rr-n       t  ^  i  •  i  o  i  -•  /. 

i  he  dinerence  between  ideas  oi  truth  and  of 
imitation  lies  chiefly  in  the  following  points. 


88 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH, 


First, — Imitation  can  only  be  of  something  material,  but 
truth  has  reference  to  statements  both  of  the  qualities  of 
§  2  First  differ-  material  things,  and  of  emotions,  impressions  and 
Sutk^and  imita-  "thoughts.  There  is  a  moral  as  well  as  material 
tion.  truth, — a  truth  of  impression  as  well   as  of 

form, — of  thought  as  well  as  of  matter  ;  and  the  truth  of  im- 
pression and  thought  is  a  thousand  times  the  more  impor- 
tant of  the  two.  Hence,  truth  is  a  term  of  universal  appli- 
cation, but  imitation  is  limited  to  that  narrow  field  of  art 
which  takes  cognizance  only  of  material  things. 
§  3.  Second  differ-  Secondly,— Truth  may  be  stated  by  any  signs 
or  symbols  which  have  a  definite  signification  in 
the  minds  of  those  to  whom  they  are  addressed,  although 
such  signs  be  themselves  no  image  nor  likeness  of  anything. 
Whatever  can  excite  in  the  mind  the  conception  of  certain 
facts,  can  give  ideas  of  truth,  though  it  be  in  no  degree  the 
imitation  or  resemblance  of  those  facts.  If  there  be — we  do 
not  say  there  is — but  if  there  be  in  painting  anything  which 
operates,  as  words  do,  not  by  resembling  anything,  but  by 
being  taken  as  a  symbol  and  substitute  for  it,  and  thus  in- 
ducing the  effect  of  it,  then  this  channel  of  communication 
can  convey  uncorrupted  truth,  though  it  do  not  in  any 
degree  resemble  the  facts  whose  conception  it  induces.  But 
ideas  of  imitation,  of  course,  require  the  likeness  of  the  ob- 
ject. They  speak  to  the  perceptive  faculties  only  :  truth  to 
the  conceptive. 

Thirdly, — And  in  consequence  of  what  is  above  stated,  an 
idea  of  truth  exists  in  the  statement  of  one  attribute  of  any- 
§  4.  Third  differ-  ^^^^        imitation  requires  the 

resemblance  of  as  many  attributes  as  we  are 
usually  cognizant  of  in  its  real  presence.  A  pencil  outline 
of  the  bough  of  a  tree  on  white  paper  is  a  statement  of  a 
certain  number  of  facts  of  form.  It  does  not  yet  amount  to 
the  imitation  of  anything.  The  idea  of  that  form  is  not 
given  in  nature  by  lines  at  all,  still  less  by  black  lines  with  a 
white  space  between  them.  But  those  lines  convey  to  the 
mind  a  distinct  impression  of  a  certain  number  of  facts, 
which  it  recognizes  as  agreeable  with  its  previous  impres* 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH. 


89 


sions  of  the  bough  of  a  tree  ;  and  it  receives,  therefore,  an 
idea  of  truth.  If,  instead  of  two  lines,  we  give  a  dark  form 
with  the  brush,  we  convey  information  of  a  certain  relation  of 
shade  between  the  bough  and  sky,  recognizable  for  another 
idea  of  truth  ;  but  we  have  still  no  imitation,  for  the  white 
paper  is  not  the  least  like  air,  nor  the  black  shadow  like 
wood.  It  is  not  until  after  a  certain  number  of  ideas  of  truth 
have  been  collected  together,  that  we  arrive  at  an  idea  of 
imitation. 

§5.  No  accurate      Hcncc  it  might  at  first  sight  appear,  that  an 

truths  necessary  /?  •  x*         •  "U  ^  '^ 

to  imitation.  idea  oi  imitation,  inasmuch  as  several  ideas  or 
truth  were  united  in  it,  was  nobler  than  a  simple  idea  of 
truth.  And  if  it  were  necessary  that  the  ideas  of  truth 
should  be  perfect,  or  should  be  subjects  of  contemplation 
as  such,  it  would  be  so.  But,  observe,  we  require  to  pro- 
duce the  effect  of  imitation  only  so  many  and  such  ideas 
of  truth  as  the  senses  are  usually  cognizant  of.  Now  the 
senses  are  not  usually,  nor  unless  they  be  especially  devoted 
to  the  service,  cognizant,  with  accuracy,  of  any  truths  but 
those  of  space  and  projection.  It  requires  long  study  and 
attention  before  they  give  certain  evidence  of  even  the 
simplest  truths  of  form.  For  instance,  the  quay  on  which 
the  figure  is  sitting,  with  his  hand  at  his  eyes,  in  Claude's 
seaport.  No.  14,  in  the  National  Gallery,  is  egregiously  out 
of  perspective.  The  eye  of  this  artist,  with  all  his  study, 
had  thus  not  acquired  the  power  of  taking  cognizance  of  the 
apparent  form  even  of  a  simple  parallelopiped.  How  much 
less  of  the  complicated  forms  of  boughs,  leaves,  or  limbs? 
Although,  therefore,  something  resembling  the  real  form  is 
necessary  to  deception,  this  something  is  not  to  be  called  a 
truth  of  form  ;  for,  strictly  speaking,  there  are  no  degrees  of 
truth,  there  are  only  degrees  of  approach  to  it  ;  and  an  ap- 
proach to  it,  whose  feebleness  and  imperfection  would  in- 
stantly offend  and  give  pain  to  a  mind  really  capable  of  dis- 
tinguishing truth,  is  yet  quite  sufficient  for  all  the  purposes 
of  deceptive  imagination.  It  is  the  same  with  regard  to  color. 
If  we  were  to  paint  a  tree  sky-blue,  or  a  dog  rose-pink,  the 
discernment  of  the  public  would  be  keen  enough  to  discover 


90 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH, 


the  falsehood  ;  but,  so  that  there  be  just  so  much  approach  to 
truth  of  color  as  may  come  up  to  the  common  idea  of  it  in 
men's  minds,  that  is  to  say,  if  the  trees  be  all  bright  green, 
and  flesh  unbroken  buff,  and  ground  unbroken  brown,  though 
all  the  real  and  refined  truths  of  color  be  wholly  omitted,  or 
rather  defied  and  contradicted,  there  is  yet  quite  enough  for 
all  purposes  of  imitation.  The  only  facts  then,  which  we  are 
usually  and  certainly  cognizant  of,  are  those  of  distance  and 
projection,  and  if  these  be  tolerably  given,  with  something 
like  truth  of  form  and  color  to  assist  them,  the  idea  of  imita- 
tion is  complete.  I  would  undertake  to  paint  an  arm,  with 
every  muscle  out  of  its  place,  and  every  bone  of  false  form 
and  dislocated  articulation,  and  yet  to  observe  certain  coarse 
and  broad  resemblances  of  true  outline,  which,  with  careful 
shading,  would  induce  deception,  and  draw  down  the  praise 
and  delight  of  the  discerning  public.  The  other  day  at 
Bruges^  while  I  was  endeavoring  to  set  down  in  my  note- 
book something  of  the  ineffable  expression  of  the  Madonna 
in  the  cathedral,  a  French  amateur  came  up  to  me,  to 
inquire  if  I  had  seen  the  modern  French  pictures  in  a 
neighboring  church.  I  had  not,  but  felt  little  inclined 
to  leave  my  marble  for  all  the  canvas  that  ever  suffered  from 
French  brushes.  My  apathy  was  attacked  with  gradually 
increasing  energy  of  praise.  Rubens  never  executed — 
Titian  never  colored  anything  like  them.  I  thought  this 
highly  probable,  and  still  sat  quiet.  The  voice  continued  at 
my  ear.  "  Parbleu,  Monsieur,  Michel  Ange  n'a  rien  produit 
de  plus  beau!"  "  De  plus  heaiif^'^  repeated  I,  wishing  to 
know  what  particular  excellences  of  Michael  Angelo  were  to 
be  intimated  by  this  expression.  "  Monsieur,  on  ne  pent  plus 
— c'est  un  tableau  admirable — inconcevable  :  Monsieur,"  said 
the  Frenchman,  lifting  up  his  hands  to  heaven,  as  he  con- 
centrated in  one  conclusive  and  overwhelming  proposition 
the  qualities  w^hich  were  to  outshine  Rubens  and  overpower 
Buonaroti — "  Monsieur,  IL  sort  !  " 

This  gentleman  could  only  perceive  two  truths — flesh  color 
and  projection.  These  constituted  his  notion  of  the  perfec- 
tion of  painting  ;  because  they  unite  all  that  is  necessary 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH. 


91 


for  deception.    He  was  not  therefore  cognizant  of  many  ideas 
of  truth,  though  perfectly  cognizant  of  ideas  of  imitation. 
§6  Ideas  of         ^®  shall  sce,  in  the  course  of  our  investiga- 
truth  are  incon-  ^^^^       {^q^^  of  truth,  that  idcas  of  imitation 

sistent  with  ideas  ^  ' 

of  imitation.  not  Only  do  not  imply  their  presence,  but  even 
are  inconsistent  with  it  ;  and  that  pictures  which  imi- 
tate so  as  to  deceive,  are  never  true.  But  this  is  not  the 
place  for  the  proof  of  this  ;  at  present  we  have  only 
to  insist  on  the  last  and  greatest  distinction  between  ideas 
of  truth  and  of  imitation — that  the  mind,  in  receiving  one  of 
the  former,  dwells  upon  its  own  conception  of  the  fact,  or 
form,  or  feeling  stated,  and  is  occupied  only  with  the  quali- 
ties and  character  of  that  fact  or  form,  considering  it  as  real 
and  existing,  being  all  the  while  totally  regardless  of  the 
signs  or  symbols  by  which  the  notion  of  it  has  been  con- 
veyed. These  signs  have  no  pretence,  nor  hypocrisy,  nor 
legerdemain  about  them  ; — there  is  nothing  to  be  found  out, 
or  sifted,  or  surprised  in  them  ;--they  bear  their  message 
simply  and  clearly,  and  it  is  that  message  which  the  mind 
takes  from  them  and  dwells  upon,  regardless  of  the  language 
in  which  it  is  delivered.  But  the  mind,  in  receiving  an  idea 
of  imitation,  is  wholly  occupied  in  finding  out  that  what  has 
been  suggested  to  it  is  not  what  it  appears  to  be  :  it  does 
not  dwell  on  the  suggestion,  but  on  the  perception  that  it  is 
a  false  suggestion  :  it  derives  its  pleasure,  not  from  the  con- 
templation of  a  truth,  but  from  the  discovery  of  a  falsehood. 
So  that  the  moment  ideas  of  truth  are  grouped  together,  so 
as  to  give  rise  to  an  idea  of  imitation,  they  change  their 
very  nature — lose  their  essence  as  ideas  of  truth — and  are 
corrupted  and  degraded,  so  as  to  share  in  the  treachery  of 
what  they  have  produced.  Hence,  finally,  ideas  of  truth  are 
the  foundation,  and  ideas  of  imitation  the  destruction,  of  all 
art.  We  shall  be  better  able  to  appreciate  their  relative 
dignity  after  the  investigation  which  we  propose  of  the 
functions  of  the  former  ;  but  we  may  as  well  now  express 
the  conclusion  to  which  we  shall  then  be  led — that  no  pict- 
ure can  be  good  which  deceives  by  its  imitation,  for  the 
very  reason  that  nothing  can  be  beautiful  which  is  not  true. 


92 


OF  IDEAS  OF  BEAUTY. 


CHAPTER  VL 

OF  IDEAS  OF  BEAUTY. 

Any  material  object  which  can  give  us  pleasure  in  the 
simple  contemplation  of  its  outward  qualities  without  any 
direct  and  definite  exertion  of  the  intellect,  I  call  in  some 
§1.  Definition  of  ^^3^^  degree,  beautiful    Why  we 

the  term  ''beau-  receive  pleasure  from  some  forms  and  colors, 

tiful."  ^  .  ' 

and  not  from  others,  is  no  more  to  be  asked  or 
answered  than  why  we  like  sugar  and  dislike  wormwood. 
The  utmost  subtilty  of  investigation  will  only  lead  us  to 
ultimate  instincts  and  principles  of  human  nature,  for  which 
no  farther  reason  can  be  given  than  the  simple  will  of  the 
Deity  that  we  should  be  so  created.  /We  may,  indeed,  per- 
ceive, as  far  as  we  are  acquainted  with  His  nature,  that  we 
have  been  so  constructed  as,  w^hen  in  a  healthy  and  cultivated 
state  of  mind,  to  derive  pleasure  from  whatever  things  are 
illustrative  of  that  nature  ;  but/  we  do— not  receive  pleasure 
from  them  because  they  are  illustrative  of  it,  nor  from  any 
perception  that  they  are  illustrative  of  it,  but  instinctively 
and  necessarily,  as  we  derive  sensual  pleasure  from  the  scent 
of  a  rose.  On  these  primary  principles  of  our  nature,  edu- 
cation and  accident  operate  to  an  unlimited  extent  ;  they 
may  be  cultivated  or  checked,  directed  or  diverted,  gifted  by 
right  guidance  with  the  most  acute  and  faultless  sense,  or 
subjected  by  neglect  to  every  phase  of  error  and  disease. 
He  who  has  followed  up  these  natural  laws  of  aversion  and 
desire,  rendering  them  more  and  more  authoritative  by  con- 
stant obedience,  so  as  to  derive  pleasure  always  from  that 
which  God  originally  intended  should  give  him  pleasure,  and 
who  derives  the  greatest  possible  sum  of  pleasure  from  any 
given  object,  is  a  man  of  taste. 

This,  then,  is  the  real  meaning  of  this  dis- 
theterm'^'^iB^^^^  P^^^^^  w^^^-    Perfect  taste  is  the  faculty  of  re- 
ceiving the  greatest  possible  pleasure  from  those 


OJ?'  IDEAS  OF  BEAUTY, 


93 


material  sources  which  are  attractive  to  our  moral  nature  in 
its  purity  and  perfection.  He  who  receives  little  pleasure 
from  these  sources,  wants  taste  ;  he  who  receives  pleasure 
from  any  other  sources,  has  false  or  bad  taste. 

And  it  is  thus  that  the  term  "  taste  "  is  to  be 
Ltweeif^^^taste  distinguished  from  that  of  "judgment,"  with 
and  judgment,  ^j^jc]^  jg  constantly  confounded.  Judgment 
is  a  general  term,  expressing  definite  action  of  the  intellect, 
and  applicable  to  every  kind  of  subject  which  can  be  sub- 
mitted to  it.  There  may  be  judgment  of  congruity,  judg- 
ment of  truth,  judgment  of  justice,  and  judgment  of  diffi- 
culty and  excellence.  But  all  these  exertions  of  the  intellect 
are  totally  distinct  from  taste,  properly  so  called,  which  is 
the  instinctive  and  instant  preferring  of  one  material  object 
to  another  without  any  obvious  reason,  except  that  it  is 
proper  to  human  nature  in  its  perfection  so  to  do. 
§  4.  How  far  Observe,  however,  I  do  not  mean  by  exclud- 
come^  intellect-  direct  cxertion  of  the  intellect  from  ideas  of 
beauty,  to  assert  that  beauty  has  no  effect  upon 
nor  connection  with  the  intellect.  All  our  moral  feelings 
are  so  inwoven  with  our  intellectual  powers,  that  we  cannot 
affect  the  one  without  in  some  degree  addressing  the  other  ; 
and  in  all  high  ideas  of  beauty,  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
much  of  the  pleasure  depends  on  delicate  and  untraceable 
perceptions  of  fitness,  propriety,  and  relation,  which  are 
purely  intellectual,  and  through  which  we  arrive  at  our  no- 
blest ideas  of  what  is  commonly  and  rightly  called  "  intellect- 
ual beauty."  But  there  is  yet  no  immediate  exertion  of  the 
intellect  ;  that  is  to  say,  if  a  person  receiving  even  the  no- 
blest ideas  of  simple  beauty  be  asked  why  he  likes  the  object 
exciting  them,  he  will  not  be  able  to  give  any  distinct  rea- 
son, nor  to  trace  in  his  mind  any  formed  thought,  to  which 
he  can  appeal  as  a  source  of  pleasure.  He  will  say  that  the 
thing  gratifies,  fills,  hallows,  exalts  his  mind,  but  he  will  not 
be  able  to  say  why,  or  how.  If  he  can,  and  if  he  can  show 
that  he  perceives  in  the  object  any  expression  of  distinct 
thought,  he  has  received  more  than  an  idea  of  beauty — it  is 
an  idea  of  relation. 


94 


OF  IDEAS  OF  RELATION, 


Ideas  of  beauty  are  among  the  noblest  which  can  be  pre- 
sented to  the  human  mind,  invariably  exalting  and  purify- 
ing it  according  to  their  degree  ;  and  it  would  appear  that 
we  are  intended  by  the  Deity  to  be  constantly  under  their 
§  5.  The  high  influence,  because  there  is  not  one  single  ob- 
tfon^ of'^ ideas^of  3^^^  nature  which  is  not  capable  of  convey- 
beauty.  jj^g  them,  and  which,  to  the  rightly  perceiving 

mind,  does  not  present  an  incalculably  greater  number  of 
beautiful  than  of  deformed  parts  '/^ there  being  in  fact  scarce- 
ly anything,  in  pure,  undiseased  nature,  like  positive  de- 
formity, but  only  degrees  of  beauty,  or  such  slight  and  rare 
points  of  permitted  contrast  as  may  render  all  around  them 
more  valuable  by  their  opposition,  spots  of  blackness  in  crea- 
tion, to  make  its  colors  felt.. 

But  althouoh  evervthino"  in  nature  is  more  or 

§6.  Meaning  of  ^  ^         ?         i?      u '     ^  I, 

the  term  " ideal  less  beautiiul,  every  species  oi  object  has  its 
beauty.  o^yri  kind  and  degree  of  beauty  ;  some  being  in 

their  own  nature  more  beautiful  than  others,  and  few,  if  any, 
individuals  possessing  the  utmost  degree  of  beauty  of  which 
the  species  is  capable.  This  utmost  degree  of  specific 
beauty,  necessarily  coexistent  with  the  utmost  perfection  of 
the  object  in  other  respects,  is  the  ideal  of  the  object. 

Ideas  of  beauty,  then,  be  it  remembered,  are  the  subjects 
of  moral,  but  not  of  intellectual  perception.  By  the  inves- 
tigation of  them  we  shall  be  led  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
ideal  subjects  of  art. 


CHAPTER  VIT. 

OF  IDEAS  OF  RELATION. 

I  USE  this  term  rather  as  one  of  convenience  than  as  ade- 
quately expressive  of  the  vast  class  of  ideas  which  I  wish  to 
be  comprehended  under  it,  namely,  all  those  conveyable  by 
§  1.  General  moan-  which  are  the  subjects  of  distinct  intel- 
ing  of  the  term.     lectual  perception  and  action,  and  which  are 


OF  IDEAS  OF  RELATION, 


95 


therefore  worthy  of  the  name  of  thoughts.  But  as  every 
thought,  or  definite  exertion  of  intellect,  implies  two  sub- 
jects, and  some  connection  or  relation  inferred  between  them, 
the  term  "  ideas  of  relation "  is  not  incorrect,  though  it  is 
inexpressive. 

Under  this  head  must  be  arranp-ed  every- 

§  2.    What   ideas       .  -i      .  •  p  •  4.-  ^l 

are  to  be  compre-  thing  productive  ot  expression,  sentiment,  and 
hended  undent,  character,  whether  in  figures  or  landscapes,  (for 
there  may  be  as  much  definite  expression  and  marked  car- 
rying out  of  particular  thoughts  in  the  treatment  of  inani- 
mate as  of  animate  nature,)  everything  relating  to  the  con- 
ception of  the  subject  and  to  the  congruity  and  relation  of 
its  parts  ;  not  as  they  enhance  each  other's  beauty  by  known 
and  constant  laws  of  composition,  but  as  they  give  each  other 
expression  and  meaning,  by  particular  application,  requiring 
distinct  thought  to  discover  or  to  enjoy:  the  choice,  for  in- 
stance, of  a  particular  lurid  or  appalling  light,  to  illustrate  an 
incident  in  itself  terrible,  or  of  a  particular  tone  of  pure 
color  to  prepare  the  mind  for  the  expression  of  refined  and 
delicate  feeling  ;  and,  in  a  still  higher  sense,  the  invention 
of  such  incidents  and  thoughts  as  can  be  expressed  in  words 
as  well  as  on  canvas,  and  are  totally  independent  of  any 
means  of  art  but  such  as  may  serve  for  the  bare  suggestion 
of  them.  The  principal  object  in  the  foreground  of  Turner's 
"  Building  of  Carthage "  is  a  group  of  children  sailing  toy 
boats.  The  exquisite  choice  of  this  incident,  as  expressive 
of  the  ruling  passion,  which  was  to  be  the  source  of  future 
greatness,  in  preference  to  the  tumult  of  busy  stone-masons 
or  arming  soldiers,  is  quite  as  appreciable  when  it  is  told  as 
when  it  is  seen, — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  technicalities 
of  painting  ;  a  scratch  of  the  pen  would  have  conveyed  the 
idea  and  spoken  to  the  intellect  as  much  as  the  elaborate 
realizations  of  color.  Such  a  thought  a*s  this  is  something 
far  above  all  art  ;  it  is  epic  poetry  of  the  highest  order. 
Claude,  in  subjects  of  the  same  kind,  commonly  introduces 
people  carrying  red  trunks  with  iron  locks  about,  and  dwells, 
with  infantine  delight,  on  the  lustre  of  the  leather  and  the 
ornaments  of  the  iron.    The  intellect  can  have  no  occupation 


96 


OF  IDEAS  OF  'RELATION, 


here  ;  we  must  look  to  the  imitation  or  to  nothing.  Conse- 
quently, Turner  rises  above  Claude  in  the  very  first  instant 
of  the  conception  of  his  picture,  and  acquires  an  intellectual 
superiority  v^hich  no  powers  of  the  draughtsman  or  the  artist 
(supposing  that  such  existed  in  his  antagonist)  could  ever 
wrest  from  him. 

Such  are  the  function  and  force  of  ideas  of 

§  3    The  exceed- 

ing  nobility  of  relation.  They  are  what  I  have  asserted  in  the 
these  ideas.  second  chapter  of  this  section  to  be  the  noblest 
subjects  of  art.  Dependent  upon  it  only  for  expression,  they 
cause  all  the  rest  of  its  complicated  sources  of  pleasure  to 
take,  in  comparison  with  them,  the  place  of  mere  language 
or  decoration  ;  nay,  even  the  noblest  ideas  of  beauty  sink 
at  once  beside  these  into  subordination  and  subjection.  It 
would  add  little  to  the  influence  of  Landseer's  picture  above 
instanced.  Chap.  II.,  §  4,  that  the  form  of  the  dog  should  be 
conceived  with  every  perfection  of  curve  and  color  which  its 
nature  was  capable  of,  and  that  the  ideal  lines  should  be  car- 
ried out  with  the  science  of  a  Praxiteles  ;  nay,  the  instant 
that  the  beauty  so  obtained  interfered  with  the  impression 
of  agony  and  desolation,  and  drew  the  mind  away  from  the 
feeling  of  the  animal  to  its  outward  form,  that  instant  would 
the  picture  become  monstrous  and  degraded.  The  utmost 
glory  of  the  human  body  is  a  mean  subject  of  contemplation, 
compared  to  the  emotion,  exertion  and  character  of  that 
which  animates  it ;  the  lustre  of  the  limbs  of  the  Aphrodite 
is  faint  beside  that  of  the  brow  of  the  Madonna  ;  and  the  di- 
vine form  of  the  Greek  god,  except  as  it  is  the  incarnation 
and  expression  of  divine  mind,  is  degraded  beside  the  passion 
and  the  prophecy  of  the  vaults  of  the  Sistine. 

Ideas  of  relation  are,  of  course,  with  respect  to  art  gener- 
ally, the  most  extensive  as  the  most  important  source  of 
§4.  Why  no  sub-  pleasure  ;  and  if  we  proposed  entering  upon  the 
ten^ivTa^ciassis  criticism  of  historical  works,  it  would  be  absurd 
necessary.  attempt  to  do  SO  without  further  subdivision 

and  arrangement.  But  the  old  landscape  painters  got  over 
so  much  canvas  without  either  exercise  of,  or  appeal  to,  the 
intellect,  that  we  shall  be  little  troubled  with  the  subject  as 


OF  IDEAS  OF  RELATION. 


97 


far  as  they  are  concerned  ;  and  whatever  subdivision  we  may 
adopt,  as  it  will  therefore  have  particular  reference  to  the 
works  of  modern  artists,  will  be  better  understood  when  we 
have  obtained  some  knowledge  of  them  in  less  important 
points. 

By  the  term  "  ideas  of  relation,"  then,  I  mean  in  future  to 
express  all  those  sources  of  pleasure,  which  involve  and  re- 
quire, at  the  instant  of  their  perception,  active  exertion  of 
the  intellectual  powers. 
Vol.  I.— 7 


I 


OF  POWEE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

GENERAL  PRINCIPLES  RESPECTING  IDEAS  OF  POWER. 

We  have  seen  in  the  last  section,  what  classes  of  ideas  may 
be  conveyed  by  art,  and  we  have  been  able  so  far  to  appre- 
ciate their  relative  worth  as  to  see,  that  from  the  list,  as  it  is 
§1.  No  necessity  to  be  applied  to  the  purposcs  of  legitimate  criti- 
Btudy*lf  ideLs^of  cism,  wc  may  at  once  throw  out  the  ideas  of 
imitation.  imitation  ;  first,  because,  as  we  have  shown,  they 

are  unworthy  the  pursuit  of  the  artist  ;  and  secondly,  be- 
cause they  are  nothing  more  than  the  result  of  a  particular 
association  of  ideas  of  truth.  In  examining  the  truth  of  art, 
therefore,  we  shall  be  compelled  to  take  notice  of  those  par- 
ticular truths,  whose  association  gives  rise  to  the  ideas  of 
imitation.  We  shall  then  see  more  clearly  the  meanness  of 
those  truths,  and  we  shall  find  ourselves  able  to  use  them  as 
tests  of  vice  in  art,  saying  of  a  picture, — It  deceives,  there- 
fore it  must  be  bad." 

Ideas  of  power,  in  the  same  way,  cannot  be 

§2.  Norforscp-  ,       ,        •  ,  i  , 

arate  study  of  completely  vicwcd  as  a  separate  class  ;  not  be- 

ideas  of  power.  ^  •  ,      .    i     i  i 

cause  they  are  mean  or  unimportant,  but  because 
they  are  almost  always  associated  with,  or  dependent  upon, 
some  of  the  higher  ideas  of  truth,  beauty,  or  relation,  rendered 
with  decision  or  velocity.  That  Dower  which  delights  us  in 
the  chalk  sketch  of  a  great  painter  is  not  one  of  the  fingers, 
not  like  that  of  the  writing-master,  mere  dexterity  of  hand. 
It  is  the  accuracy  and  certainty  of  the  knowledge,  rendered 


IDEAS  OF  POWER. 


99 


evident  by  its  rapid  and  fearless  expression,  which  is  the  real 
source  of  pleasure  ;  and  so  upon  each  difficulty  of  art,  whether 
it  be  to  know,  or  to  relate,  or  to  invent,  the  sensation  of 
power  is  attendant,  when  we  see  that  difficulty  totally  and 
swiftly  vanquished.  Hence,  as  we  determine  what  is  other- 
wise desirable  in  art,  we  shall  gradually  develop  the  sources 
of  the  ideas  of  power  ;  and  if  there  be  anything  difficult 
which  is  not  otherwise  desirable,  it  must  be  afterwards  con- 
sidered separately. 

But  it  will  be  necessary  at  present  to  notice 
ler*  one ^particu-  a  particular  form  of  the  ideas  of  power,  which 
lar  form.  is  partially  independent  of  knowledge  of  truth, 

or  difficulty,  and  which  is  apt  to  corrupt  the  judgment  of 
the  critic,  and  debase  the  work  of  the  artist.  It  is  evident 
that  the  conception  of  power  which  we  receive  from  a  cal- 
culation of  unseen  difficulty,  and  an  estimate  of  unseen 
strength,  can  never  be  so  impressive  as  that  which  we 
receive  from  the  present  sensation  or  sight  of  the  one  resist- 
ing, and  the  other  overwhelming.  In  the  one  case  the 
power  is  imagined,  and  in  the  other  felt. 

§4.  There  are  There  are  thus  two  modes  in  which  we  re- 
receivin^g^^ideas  ^cive  the  Conception  of  power  ;  one,  the  most 
of  power,  com   -jugt  when  bv  a  perfect  knowledsre  of  the  diffi- 

monly   mconsis-   J       ?  <j       r  o 

teiit*  culty  to  be  overcome,  and  the  means  employed, 

we  form  a  right  estimate  of  the  faculties  exerted  ;  the 
other,  when  without  possessing  such  intimate  and  ac- 
curate knowledge,  we  are  impressed  by  a  sensation  of 
power  in  visible  action.  If  these  two  modes  of  receiving 
the  impression  agree  in  the  result,  and  if  the  sensation  be 
equal  to  the  estimate,  we  receive  the  utmost  possible  idea  of 
power.  But  this  is  the  case  perhaps  with  the  works  of  only 
one  man  out  of  the  whole  circle  of  the  fathers  of  art,  of  him 
to  whom  we  have  just  referred,  Michael  Angelo.  In  others, 
the  estimate  and  the  sensation  are  constantly  unequal,  and 
often  contradictory. 

The  first  reason  of  this  inconsistency  is,  that 

§  5.  First  reason    .  .  .  „ 

of  the  inconsis-  in  order  to  receive  a  sensatio?i  of  power,  we 
must  see  it  in  operation.    Its  victory,  there- 


100  GENERAL  PRmCIPLES  RESPECTING 


fore,  must  not  be  achieved,  but  achieving,  and  therefore 
imperfect.  Thus  we  receive  a  greater  sensation  of  power 
from  the  half-hewn  limbs  of  the  Twib'ght  to  the  Da}^  of  the 
Cappella  de'  Medici,  than  even  from  the  divine  inebriety  of 
the  Bacchus  in  the  gallery — greater  from  the  life  dashed  out 
along  the  Friezes  of  the  Parthenon,  than  from  the  polished 
limbs  of  the  Apollo, — greater  from  the  ink  sketch  of  the 
head  of  Raffaelle's  St.  Catherine,  than  from  the  perfection 
of  its  realization. 

Another  reason  of  the  inconsistencv  is,  that 

§6.    Second  rea-     ,  /?  •     •  ^'  ^     a.     ^v.  ' 

son  for  the  in-  the  scusatiou  OT  powcr  IS  m  proportion  to  the 

consistency,  ^'j  t 

apparent  inadequacy  oi  the  means  to  the  end  ; 
so  that  the  impression  is  much  greater  from  a  partial  success 
attained  with  slight  effort,  than  from  perfect  success  attained 
with  greater  proportional  effort.  Now,  in  all  art,  every 
touch  or  effort  does  individually  less  in  proportion  as  tlie 
work  approaches  perfection.  The  first  five  chalk  touches 
bring  a  head  into  existence  out  of  nothing.  No  five  touches 
in  the  whole  course  of  the  work  will  ever  do  so  much  as 
these,  and  the  difference  made  by  each  touch  is  more  and 
more  imperceptible  as  the  work  approaches  completion. 
Consequently,  the  ratio  between  the  means  employed  and 
the  effect  produced  is  constantly  decreasing,  and  therefore 
the  least  sensation  of  power  is  received  from  the  most  per- 
fect work. 

It  is  thus  evident  that  there  are  sensations  of 

§  7.  The  sensa-  .  .  i         •     i         •  i 

tion  of  power  powcr  about  impcrtect  art,  so  that  it  be  right 

ought  not  to  be       ,       «  .,  ,  .  ,  ,  , 

fionght  in  iraper-  art  as  lar  as  it  goes,  which  must  always  be  want- 
foctart.  perfection  ;  and  that  there  are  sources 

of  pleasure  in  the  hasty  sketch  and  rough  hewn  block,  which 
are  partially  wanting  in  the  tinted  canvas  and  the  polished 
marble.  But  it  is  nevertheless  wrong  to  prefer  the  sensation 
of  power  to  the  intellectual  perception  of  it.  There  is  in 
reality  greater  power  in  the  completion  than  in  the  com- 
mencement ;  and  though  it  be  not  so  manifest  to  the  senses, 
it  ought  to  have  higher  influence  on  the  mind  ;  and  there- 
fore in  praising  pictures  for  the  ideas  of  power  they  convey, 
we  must  not  look  to  the  keenest  sensation,  but  to  the  hio-h- 


IDEAS  OF  POWEB, 


101 


est  estimate,  accompanied  with  as  much  of  the  sensation  as 
is  compatible  with  it  ;  and  thus  we  shall  consider  those  pict- 
ures as  conveying  the  highest  ideas  of  power  which  attain 
the  most  perfect  end  with  the  slightest  possible  means  ;  not, 
observe,  those  in  which,  though  much  has  been  done  with 
little,  all  has  not  been  done,  but  from  the  picture,  in  which  all 
has  been  done,  and  yet  not  a  touch  thrown  away.  The 
quantity  of  work  in  the  sketch  is  necessarily  less  in  propor- 
tion to  the  effect  obtained  than  in  the  picture  ;  but  yet  the 
picture  involves  the  greater  power,  if  out  of  all  the  addi- 
tional labor  bestowed  on  it,  not  a  touch  has  been  lost. 

For  instance,  there  are  few  drawings  of  the 

§  8.  Instances  in  .     i        .  i     ,    •        i  ,  •  « 

pictures  of  mod-  present  day  that  involve  greater  sensations  of 
ern  artists.  power  than  those  of  Frederick  Tayler.  Every 
dash  tells,  and  the  quantity  of  effect  obtained  is  enormous,  in 
proportion  to  the  apparent  means.  But  the  effect  obtained  is 
not  complete.  Brilliant,  beautiful,  and  right,  as  a  sketch,  the 
work  is  still  far  from  perfection,  as  a  drawing.  On  the  con- 
trary, there  are  few  drawings  of  the  present  day  that  bear 
evidence  of  more  labor  bestowed,  or  more  complicated  means 
employed,  than  those  of  John  Lewis.  The  result  does  not, 
at  first,  so  much  convey  an  impression  of  inherent  power  as 
of  prolonged  exertion  ;  but  the  result  is  complete.  Water- 
color  drawing  can  be  carried  no  farther  ;  nothing  has  been 
left  unfinished  or  untold.  And  on  examination  of  the  means 
employed,  it  is  found  and  felt  that  not  one  touch  out  of  the 
thousands  employed  has  been  thrown  away  ; — that  not  one 
dot  nor  dash  could  be  spared  without  loss  of  effect  ; — and 
that  the  exertion  has  been  as  swift  as  it  has  been  prolonged 
— as  bold  as  it  has  been  persevering.  The  power  involved  in 
such  a  picture  is  of  the  highest  order,  and  the  enduring 
pleasure  following  on  the  estimate  of  it  pure. 
§9.  Connection  But  there  is  still  farther  ground  for  caution 
pou4Ta"ncf ^  in  pursuing  the  sensation  of  power,  connected 
of  execution.  with  the  particular  characters  and  modes  of  exe- 
cution. This  we  shall  be  better  able  to  understand  by  briefly 
reviewing  the  various  excellences  which  may  belong  to  execu- 
tion, and  give  pleasure  in  it  ;  though  the  full  determination  of 


102 


OF  IDEAS  OF  POWER, 


what  is  desirable  in  it,  and  the  critical  examination  of  the  exe- 
cution of  different  artists,  must  be  deferred,  as  will  be  immedi- 
ately seen,  until  we  are  more  fully  acquainted  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  truth. 


CHAPTER  11. 

OF  IDEAS  OF   POWER,  AS    THEY    AEE    DEPENDENT  UPON 
EXECUTION. 

By  the  term  "  execution,"  I  understand  the  right  me- 
§1.  Meaning  of  chanical  usc  of  the  means  of  art  to  produce  a 

the    term    "  ex- 
ecution." given  end. 

All  qualities  of  execution,  properly  so  called,  are  influ- 

§2.    The   first  enced  by,  and  in  a  2:reat  deo-ree  dependent  on, 

quality  of  execu-  '  ^       ^1.  4.% 

tion  is  truth.  a  lar  higher  power  than  that  oi  mere  execution, 
— knowledge  of  truth.  For  exactly  in  proportion  as  an 
artist  is  certain  of  his  end,  will  he  be  swift  and  simple  in  his 
means  ;  and,  as  he  is  accurate  and  deep  in  his  knowledge, 
will  he  be  refined  and  precise  in  his  touch.  The  first  merit 
of  manipulation,  then,  is  that  delicate  and  ceaseless  expres- 
sion of  refined  truth  which  is  carried  out  to  the  last  touch, 
and  shadow  of  a  touch,  and  which  makes  every  hairsbreadth 
of  importance,  and  every  gradation  full  of  meaning.  It  is 
not,  properly  speaking,  execution  ;  but  it  is  the  only  source 
of  difference  between  the  execution  of  a  commonplace  and 
of  a  perfect  artist.  The  lowest  draughtsman,  if  he  have 
spent  the  same  time  in  handling  the  brush,  may  be  equal  to 
the  highest  in  the  other  qualities  of  execution  (in  swiftness, 
simplicity,  and  decision  ;)  but  not  in  truth.  It  is  in  the  per- 
fection and  precision  of  the  instantaneous  line  that  the  claim 
to  immortality  is  laid.  And  if  this  truth  of  truths  be  present, 
all  the  other  qualities  of  execution  may  well  be  spared  ;  and 
to  those  artists  who  wish  to  excuse  their  ignorance  and  in- 
accuracy by  a  species  of  execution  which  is  a  perpetual  proc- 
lamation, "qu'ils  n'ont  demeurc  qu'un  quart  d'heure  a  le 


AS  DEPENDENT  ON  EXECUTION  1( 


faire,"  we  may  reply  with  the  truthful  Alceste,  Monsieii  , 
le  temps  ne  fait  rien  a  I'affaire." 

§  3.  The  second,  The  secoiid  quality  of  execution  is  simplicity, 
simplicity,  rpj^g  more  unpretending,  quiet,  and  retiring  the 

means,  the  more  impressive  their  effect.  Any  ostentation, 
brilliancy,  or  pretension  of  touch, — any  exhibition  of  power 
or  quickness,  merely  as  such,  above  all,  any  attempt  to  render 
lines  attractive  at  the  expense  of  their  meaning,  is  vice. 
§  4.  The  third,  The  third  is  mystery.  Nature  is  always 
mystery.  mysterious  and  secret  in  the  use  of  her  meanb  ; 

and  art  is  always  likest  her  when  it  is  most  inexplicable. 
That  execution  which  is  the  most  incomprehensible,  and 
which  therefore  defies  imitation,  (other  qualities  being  sup- 
posed alike,)  is  the  best. 

§  5.  The  fourth,  The  f  ourth  is  inadequacy.  The  less  sufficient 
the'^m'th^'dec^  means  appear  to  the  end,  the  greater  (as 
s^^"-  has  been  already  noticed)  will  be  the  sensation 

of  power. 

The  fifth  is  decision  :  the  appearance,  that  is,  that  what- 
ever is  done,  has  been  done  fearlessly  and  at  once  ;  because 
this  gives  us  the  impression  that  both  the  fact  to  be  repre- 
sented, and  the  means  necessary  to  its  representation,  were 
perfectly  known. 

§  6.  The  sixth,  The  sixth  is  velocity.  Not  only  is  velocity, 
velocity.  ^Y^Q  appearaj  .e  of  it,  agreeable  as  decision 

is,  because  it  gives  ideas  o  power  and  knowledge  ;  but 
of  two  touches,  as  nearly  a^  possible  the  same  in  other  re- 
spects, the  quickest  will  invariably  be  the  best.  Truth 
being  .supposed  equally  present  in  the  shape  and  direc- 
tion of  both,  there  will  be  more  evenness,  grace  and  vari- 
ety, in  the  quick  one  than  in  the  slow  one.  It  will  be 
more  agreeable  to  the  eye  as  a  touch  or  line,  '^ndi  will  pos- 
sess more  of  the  qualities  of  the  lines  of  nature — gradation, 
uncertainty,  and  unity. 

§7.  strangeness  These  six  qualities  are  the  only  perfectly 
source^oT^pTeas^  legitimate  sources  of  pleasure  in  execution  ; 
ure  in  execution,  j^^^  J  flight  havc  added  a  seventh— strange- 
ness, which  in  many  cases  is  productive  of  -a  pleasure  not 


104 


OF  IDEAS  OF  POWER, 


altogether  mean  or  degrading,  though  scarcely  right.  Sup- 
posing the  other  higher  qualities  first  secured,  it  adds  in 
no  small  degree  to  our  impression  of  the  artist's  knowl- 
edge, if  the  means  used  be  such  as  we  should  never  have 
thought  of,  or  should  have  thought  adapted  to  a  con- 
trary effect.  Let  us,  for  instance,  compare  the  execution  of 
the  bull's  head  in  the  left  hand  lowest  corner  of  the  Adora- 
tion of  the  Magi,  in  the  Museum  at  Antwerp,  with  that  in 
Berghem's  landscape,  No.  132  in  the  Dulwich  gallery. 
Rubens  first  scratches  horizontally  over  his  canvas  a  thin 
grayish  brown,  transparent  and  even,  very  much  the  color 
of  light  wainscot  ;  the  horizontal  strokes  of  the  bristles 
being  left  so  evident,  that  the  whole  might  be  taken  for  an 
imitation  of  wood,  were  it  not  for  its  transparency.  On 
this  ground  the  eye,  nostril,  and  outline  of  the  cheek  are 
given  with  two  or  three  rude,  brown  touches  (about  three  or 
four  minutes'  work  in  all),  though  the  head  is  colossal.  The 
background  is  then  laid  in  with  thick,  solid,  warm  white, 
actually  projecting  all  round  the  head,  leaving  it  in  dark  in- 
taglio. Finally,  five  thin  and  scratchy  strokes  of  very  cold 
bluish  white  are  struck  for  the  high  light  on  the  forehead 
and  nose,  and  the  head  is  complete.  Seen  within  a  yard  of 
the  canvas,  it  looks  actually  transparent — a  flimsy,  meaning- 
less, distant  shadow  ;  while  the  background  looks  solid,  pro- 
jecting and  near.  From  the  right  distance,  (ten  or  twelve 
yards  off,  whence  alone  the  whole  of  the  picture  can  be 
seen,)  it  is  a  complete,  rich,  substantial,  and  living  realiza- 
tion of  the  projecting  head  of  the  animal  ;  while  the  back- 
ground falls  far  behind.  Now  there  is  no  slight  nor  mean 
pleasure  in  perceiving  such  a  result  attained  by  means  so 
strange.  By  Berghem,  on  the  other  hand,  a  dark  back- 
ground is  first  laid  in  with  exquisite  delicacy  and  transpar- 
ency, and  on  this  the  cow's  head  is  actually  modelled  in 
luminous  white,  the  separate  locks  of  hair  j^rojecting  from 
the  canvas.  No  surprise,  nor  much  pleasure  of  any  kind, 
would  be  attendant  on  this  execution,  even  were  the  result 
equally  successful  ;  and  what  little  pleasure  we  had  in  it, 
vanishes,  when  on  retiring  from  the  picture,  we  find  the  head 


AS  DEPENDENT  ON  EXECUTION 


105 


shining  like  a  distant  lantern,  instead  of  substantial  or  near. 
Yet  strangeness  is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  legitimate  source 
of  pleasure.  That  means  which  is  most  conducive  to  the 
end,  should  always  be  the  most  pleasurable  ;  an#that  which 
is  most  conducive  to  the  end,  can  be  strange  only  to  the 
ignorance  of  the  spectator.  This  kind  of  pleasure  is  illegiti- 
mate, therefore,  because  it  implies  and  requires,  in  those  who 
feel  it,  ignorance  of  art. 

§8.  Yet  even  the  The  legitimate  sources  of  pleasure  in  execu- 
LufcesofVeL^  ^^^^^  therefore  truth,  simplicity,  mystery, 
ure  in  execution  inadequacy,  dccisiou,  and  velocity.     But  of 

are  inconsistent  .  . 

with  each  other,  these,  be  it  obscrved,  some  are  so  far  incon- 
sistent with  others,  that  they  cannot  be  united  in  high 
degrees.  Mystery  with  inadequacy,  for  instance  ;  since 
to  see  that  the  means  are  inadequate,  we  must  see  what 
they  are.  Now  the  first  three  are  the  great  qualities  of 
execution,  and  the  last  three  are  the  attractive  ones,  be- 
cause on  them  are  chiefly  attendant  the  ideas  of  power.  By 
the  first  three  the  attention  is  withdrawn  from  the  means 
and  fixed  on  the  result  :  by  the  last  three,  withdrawn  from 
the  result  and  fixed  on  the  means.  To  see  that  execution 
is  swift  or  that  it  is  decided,  we  must  look  away  from  its 
creation  to  observe  it  in  the  act  of  creating  ;  we  must  think 
more  of  the  pallet  than  of  the  picture,  but  simplicity  and 
mystery  compel  the  mind  to  leave  the  means  and  fix  itself 
on  the  conception.    Hence  the  danarer  of  too 

§9.    And  fond-  «      -,  ^         ,  •  /» 

ness  for  ideas  of  great  fonducss  lor  thoso  sensations  of  power 
thr^adoption  of  which  are  associated  with  the  three  last  quali- 
the  lowest.  ^.^^  cxccution  ;  for  although  it  is  most  de- 
sirable that  these  should  be  present  as  far  as  they  are  con- 
sistent with  the  others,  and  though  their  visible  absence  is 
always  painful  and  wrong,  yet  the  moment  the  higher  quali- 
ties are  sacrificed  to  them  in  the  least  degree,  we  have  a 
brilliant  vice.  Berghem  and  Salvator  Rosa  are  good  in- 
stances of  vicious  execution  dependent  on  too  great  fond- 
ness for  sensations  of  power,  vicious  because  intrusive  and 
attractive  in  itself,  instead  of  being  subordinate  to  its  results 
and  forgotten  in  them.    There  is  perhaps  no  greater  stum- 


106 


OF  IDEAS  OF  POWEB. 


bling-block  in  the  artist's  way,  than  the  tendency  to  sacrifice 
truth  and  simpKcity  to  decision  and  velocity,*  captivating 
qualities,  ^^.s^  of  attainment,  and  sure  to  attract  attention 
and  praise,  while  the  delicate  degree  of  truth  which  is  at 
first  sacrificed  to  them  is  so  totally  unappreciable  by  the 
majority  of  spectators,  so  difficult  of  attainment  to  the  artist, 
that  it  is  no  wonder  that  efforts  so  arduous  and  unrewarded 
§10.  Therefore  should  be  abandoned.  But  if  the  temptation 
perilous.  once  yielded  to,  its  consequences  are  fatal  ; 

there  is  no  pause  in  the  fall.  I  could  name  a  celebrated 
modern  artist- — once  a  man  of  the  highest  power  and  prom- 
ise, who  is  a  glaring  instance  of  the  peril  of  such  a  course. 
Misled  by  the  undue  popularity  of  his  swift  execution,  he 
has  sacrificed  to  it,  first  precision,  and  then  truth,  and  her 
associate,  beauty.  What  was  first  neglect  of  nature,  has 
become  contradiction  of  her  ;  what  was  once  imperfection, 
is  now  falsehood  ;  and  all  that  was  meritorious  in  his  man- 
ner, is  becoming  the  worst,  because  the  most  attractive  of 
vices  ;  decision  without  a  foundation,  and  swiftness  without 
an  end. 

§  11.  Recapituia-  Such  are  the  principal  modes  in  which  the 
ideas  of  power  may  become  a  dangerous  attrac- 
tion to  the  artist — a  false  test  to  the  critic.  But  in  all  cases 
where  they  lead  us  astray  it  will  be  found  that  the  error  is 
caused  by  our  preferring  victory  over  a  small  apparent  diffi- 
culty to  victory  over  a  great,  but  concealed  one  ;  and  so  that 

*  I  have  here  noticed  only  noble  vices,  the  sacrifices  of  one  excel- 
lence to  another  legitifnate  but  inferior  one.  Th^re  are,  on  the  other 
hand,  qualities  of  execution  which  are  often  sought  for  and  praised, 
though  scarcely  by  the  class  of  persons  for  whom  I  am  writing,  in 
which  everything  is  sacrificed  to  illegitimate  and  contemptible  sources 
of  pleasure,  and  these  are  vice  throughout,  and  have  no  redeeming 
quality  nor  excusing  aim.  Such  is  that  which  is  often  thought  so  de- 
sirable in  the  Drawing- master,  under  the  title  of  boldness,  meaning 
that  no  touch  is  ever  to  be  made  less  than  the  tenth  of  an  inch  broad  ; 
such,  on  the  other  hand,  the  softness  and  smoothness  which  are  'the 
great  attraction  of  Carlo  Dolci,  and  such  the  exhibition  of  particular 
powers  and  tricks  of  the  hand  and  fingers,  in  total  forgetfulness  of  any 
end  whatsoever  to  be  attained  thereby,  which  is  especially  character- 
istic of  modern  engraving.    Compare  Sect.  II.  Chap.  II.  §  21.  Note. 


OF  THE  SUBLIME. 


107 


we  keep  this  distinction  constantly  in  view,  (whether  with 
reference  to  execution  or  to  any  other  quality  of  art,)  be- 
tween the  sensation  and  the  intellectual  estimate  of  power, 
we  shall  always  find  the  ideas  of  power  a  just  and  high 
source  of  pleasure  in  every  kind  and  grade  of  art. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF    THE  SUBLIME. 

It  may  perhaps  be  wondered  that  in  the  division  we  have 
made  of  oar  subject,  we  have  taken  no  notice  of  the  sublime 
in  art,  and  that  in  our  explanation  of  that  division  we  have 
not  once  used  the  word. 

§  1.  Sublimity  is  The  fact  is,  that  sublimity  is  not  a  specific 
JhemfnaofTy"^  term,— not  a  term  descriptive  of  the  effect  of  a 
thing  above  It.  particular  class  of  ideas.  Anything  which  ele- 
vates the  mind  is  sublime,  and  elevation  of  mind  is  produced 
by  the  contemplation  of  greatness  of  any  kind  ;  but  chiefly, 
of  course,  by  the  greatness  of  the  noblest  things.  Sublimity 
is,  therefore,  only  another  »word  for  the  effect  of  greatness 
upon  the  feelings.  Greatness  of  matter,  space,  power,  virtue, 
or  beauty,  are  thus  all  sublime  ;  and  there  is  perhaps  no  de- 
sirable quality  of  a  work  of  art,  which  in  its  perfection  is  not, 
in  some  way  or  degree,  sublime. 

§  2  Burke's  the  ^^^^7  prepared  to  allow  of  much  ingenuity 

ory  of  the  nat-  in  Burkc's  thcorv  of  the  sublime,  as  connected 

Ure  of  the  sub-         •   y  ^^>  .  rm  P  ^  ' 

lime  incorrect,  With  scli-prescrvation.  ihere  are  icw  thmgs  SO 
and  why.  great  as  death  ;  and  there  is  perhaps  nothing 

which  banishes  all  littleness  of  thought  and  feeling  in  an 
equal  degree  with  its  contemplation.  Everything,  therefore, 
which  in  any  way  points  to  it,  and,  therefore,  most  dangers 
and  powers  over  which  we  have  little  control,  are  in  some  de- 
gree sublime.  But  it  is  not  the  fear,  observe,  but  the  con- 
templation of  death  ;  not  the  instinctive  shudder  and  strug- 


108 


OF  THE  SUBLIME 


gle  of  self-preservation,  but  the  deliberate  measurement  of 
the  doom,  which  are  really  great  or  sublime  in  feeling.  It  is 
not  while  we  shrink,  but  while  we  defy,  that  we  receive  or 
convey  the  highest  conceptions  of  the  fate.  There  is  no  sub- 
limity in  the  agony  of  terror.  Whether  do  we  trace  it  most 
in  the  cry  to  the  mountains,  "  fall  on  us,"  and  to  the  hills, 
cover  us,"  or  in  the  calmness  of  the  prophecy— ^'And  though 
after  my  skin  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  I  shall 
„  „   _        .    see  God  ? "    A  little  reflection  will  easily  con- 

§3.    Danger   is      ,  i  <»       n  . 

Bubiime,  but  not  vince  any  one,  that  so  far  from  the  feeliners  of 

the  fear  of  it.  m>  -       ^    -  ^         ^  ^' 

seli-jDreservation  being  necessary  to  the  sublime, 
their  greatest  action  is  totally  destructive  of  it ;  and  that 
there  are  few  feelings  less  capable  of  its  perception  than  those 
of  a  coward.  But  the  simple  conception  or  idea  of  greatness 
of  suffering  or  extent  of  destruction  is  sublime,  whether  there 
be  any  connection  of  that  idea  with  ourselves  or  not.  If  we 
were  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  all  peril  or  pain,  the  percep- 
tion of  these  agencies  in  their  influence  on  others  would  not 
be  less  sublime,  not  because  peril  or  pain  are  sublime  in  their 
own  nature,  but  because  their  contemplation,  exciting  com- 
passion or  fortitude,  elevates  the  mind,  and  ren- 
beau^'^^s^^mib-  ^^^^  meanness  of  thought  impossible.  Beauty 
is  not  so  often  felt  to  be  sublime  ;  because,  in 
many  kinds  of  purely  material  beauty  there  is  some  truth  in 
Burke's  assertion,  that  "  littleness  "  is  one  of  its  elements. 
But  he  who  has  not  felt  that  there  may  be  beauty  without 
littleness,  and  that  such  beauty  is  a  source  of  the  sublime,  is 
„  ^   ,  yet  ignorant  of  the  meanins:  of  the  ideal  in  art. 

§  5.  And  gener-   %  ^    ^  .  .  ° 

ally  whatever  ele-  I  do  not  mean,  in  tracing  the  source  of  the  sub- 

vates  the  mind.     , .  ^  ^      ,  i  /.      •  i  i 

lime  to  greatness,  to  hamper  myselr  with  any 
fine-spun  theory.  I  take  the  widest  possible  ground  of  in- 
vestigation, that  sublimity  is  found  wherever  anything  ele- 
vates the  mind  ;  that  is,  wherever  it  contemplates  anything 
above  itself,  and  perceives  it  to  be  so.  This  is  the  simple 
philological  signification  of  the  word  derived  from  sublimis  ; 
and  will  serve  us  much  more  easily,  and  be  a  far  clearer  and 
more  evident  ground  of  argument,  than  any  mere  metaphysi- 
cal or  tu-^^  limited  definition,  while  the  proof  of  its  justness 


OF  THE  SUBLIME, 


109 


will  be  naturally  developed  by  its  application  to  the  different 
branches  of  art. 

§6.  The  former  As,  therefore,  the  sublime  is  not  distinct  from 
subject^  is  ^Lere-  what  is  beautiful,  nor  from  other  sources  of  pleas- 
fore  sufficient,     ^j,^       ^^^^  y^^^  -g  Qj^jy  ^  particular  mode  and 

manifestation  of  them,  my  subject  will  divide  itself  into  the 
investigation  of  ideas  of  truth,  beauty,  and  relation  ;  and  to 
each  of  these  classes  of  ideas  I  destine  a  separate  part  of  the 
work.  The  investigation  of  ideas  of  truth  will  enable  us  to 
determine  the  relative  rank  of  artists  as  followers  and  histori- 
ans of  nature. 

That  of  ideas  of  beauty  will  lead  us  to  compare  them  in 
their  attainment,  first  of  what  is  agreeable  in  technical  mat- 
ters, then  in  color  and  composition,  finally  and  chiefly,  in 
the  purity  of  their  conceptions  of  the  ideal. 

And  that  of  ideas  of  relation  will  lead  us  to  compare  them 
as  originators  of  just  thought. 


PAET  IL 
OF  TEUTH. 


GENEEAL  PKINCIPLES  EESPECTING  IDEAS  OF  TEUTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH  IN  THEIR  CONNECTION  WITH  THOSE  OF 
BEAUTY  AND  RELATION. 

It  cannot  but  be  evident  from  the  above  division  of  the 
ideas  conveyable  by  art,  that  the  landscape  painter  must 
always  have  tv^o  great  and  distinct  ends  ;  the  first,  to  in- 
§1.  The  two  great  duce  in  the  spectator's  mind  the  faithful  con- 
^S^^t^'  ception  of  any  natural  objects  whatsoever  ;  the 
of  fec^iTand^^  sccoud,  to  guidc  the  spectator's  mind  to  those 
thoughts.  objects  most  worthy  of  its  contemplation,  and 

to  inform  him  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  with  which  these 
were  regarded  by  the  artist  himself. 

In  attaining  the  first  end,  the  painter  only  places  the  spec- 
tator where  he  stands  himself  ;  he  sets  him  before  the  land- 
scape and  leaves  him.  The  spectator  is  alone.  He  may 
follow  out  his  own  thoughts  as  he  would  in  the  natural  soli- 
tude, or  he  may  remain  untouched,  unreflecting  and  regard- 
less, as  his  disposition  may  incline  him.  But  he  has  nothing 
of  thought  given  to  him,  no  new  ideas,  no  unknown  feelings, 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TllUTR. 


Ill 


forced  on  his  attention  or  his  heart.  The  artist  is  his  con- 
veyance, not  his  companion, — his  horse,  not  his  friend.  But 
in  attaining  the  second  end,  the  artist  not  only  places  the 
spectator,  but  talks  to  him  ;  makes  him  a  sharer  in  his  own 
strong  feelings  and  quick  thoughts  ;  hurries  him  away  in 
his  own  enthusiasm  ;  guides  him  to  all  that  is  beautiful  ; 
snatches  him  from  all  that  is  base,  and  leaves  him  more  than 
delighted, — ennobled  and  instructed,  under  the  sense  of 
having  not  only  beheld  a  new  scene,  but  of  having  held 
communion  with  a  new  mind,  and  having  been  endowed  for 
a  time  with  the  keen  perception  and  the  impetuous  emotion 
of  a  nobler  and  more  penetrating  intelligence. 
§2.  They  induce  Each  of  these  different  aims  of  art  will  neces- 
o/materM^sub^  sitate  a  different  system  of  choice  of  objects  to 
j^^^^-  be  represented.    The  first  does  not  indeed  im- 

ply choice  at  all,  but  it  is  usually  united  with  the  selection  of 
such  objects  as  may  be  naturally  and  constantly  pleasing  to 
all  men,  at  all  times  ;  and  this  selection,  when  perfect  and 
careful,  leads  to  the  attainment  of  the  pure  ideal.  But  the 
artist  aiming  at  the  second  end,  selects  his  objects  for  their 
meaning  and  character,  rather  than  for  their  beauty  ;  and 
uses  them  rather  to  throw  light  upon  the  particular  thought 
he  wishes  to  convey,  than  as  in  themselves  objects  of  uncon- 
nected admiration. 

§  3  The  first  Now,  although  the  first  mode  of  selection, 
mode  of  selection  when  fiTuided  bv  deep  reflection,  may  rise  to  the 

apt   to   produce  ,    ^.  ,  •  ii  i 

sameness  and  production  oi  works  posscssmg  a  uobic  and 
repetition.  ceaseless  influence  on  the  human  mind,  it  is 
likely  to  degenerate  into,  or  rather,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
il;  never  goes  beyond,  a  mere  appeal  to  such  parts  of  our  ani- 
mal nature  as  are  constant  and  common — shared  by  all,  and 
perpetual  in  all  ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the  pleasure  of  the 
eye  in  the  opposition  of  a  cold  and  warm  color,  or  of  a  massy 
form  with  a  delicate  one.  It  also  tends  to  induce  constant 
repetition  of  the  same  ideas,  and  reference  to  the  same  prin- 
ciples ;  it  gives  rise  to  those  rules  of  art  which  properly  ex- 
cited Reynolds's  indignation  when  applied  to  its  higher  eiforts  ; 
it  is  the  source  of,  and  the  apology  for,  that  host  of  techni- 


112 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH. 


calities  and  absurdities  which  in  all  ages  have  been  the  curse 
of  art  and  the  crown  of  the  connoisseur. 

But  art,  in  its  second  and  hiorhest  aim,  is  not 

§4.    The  second  ,  •       i  p     i-  •, 

necessitating  va-  an  appeal  to  Constant  annnal  leehngs,  but  an  ex- 
pression  and  awakening  of  individual  thought  : 
it  is  therefore  as  various  and  as  extended  in  its  efforts  as  the 
compass  and  grasp  of  the  directing  mind  ;  and  we  feel,  in 
each  of  its  results,  that  we  are  looking,  not  at  a  specimen  of  a 
tradesman's  wares,  of  which  he  is  ready  to  make  us  a  dozen 
to  match,  but  at  one  coruscation  of  a  perpetually  active  mind, 
like  which  there  has  not  been,  and  will  not  be  another. 

5  Y  t  th  fi  .  t  Hence,  although  there  can  be  no  doubt  which 
is  delightful  to  of  these  branches  of  art  is  the  hisrhest,  it  is 

all  .  . 

equally  evident  that  the  first  will  be  the  most 
generally  felt  and  appreciated.  For  the  simple  statement 
of  the  truths  of  nature  must  in  itself  be  pleasing  to  every 
order  of  mind  ;  because  every  truth  of  nature  is  more  or  less 
beautiful ;  and  if  there  be  just  and  right  selection  of  the 
more  important  of  these  truths — based,  as  above  explained, 
on  feelings  and  desires  coi^mon  to  all  mankind — the  facts  so 
selected  must,  in  some  degree,  be  delightful  to  all,  and  their 
value  appreciable  by  all  :  more  or  less,  indeed,  as  their  senses 
and  instinct  have  been  rendered  more  or  less  acute  and  ac- 
curate by  use  and  study  ;  but  in  some  degree  by  all,  and  in 
§  6.  The  second  Same  Way  by  all.  But  the  highest  art,  being 
only  to  a  few.  based  on  sensations  of  peculiar  minds,  sensations 
occurring  to  them  only  at  particular  times,  and  to  a  plurality 
of  mankind  perhaps  never,  and  being  ex^jressive  of  thoughts 
which  could  only  rise  out  of  a  mass  of  the  most  extended 
knowledge,  and  of  dispositions  modified  in  a  thousand  ways 
by  peculiarity  of  intellect — can  only  be  met  and  understood 
by  persons  having  some  sort  of  sympathy  with  the  high  and 
solitary  minds  which  produced  it — sympathy  only  to  be  felt 
by  minds  in  some  degree  high  and  solitary  themselves.  He 
alone  can  appreciate  the  art,  who  could  comprehend  the  con- 
versation of  the  painter,  and  share  in  his  emotion,  in  mo- 
ments of  his  most  fiery  passion  and  most  original  thought. 
And  whereas  the  true  meaninsc  and  end  of  his  art  must  thus 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH, 


113 


be  sealed  to  thousands,  or  misunderstood  by  them  ;  so  also, 
as  he  is  sometimes  obliged,  in  working  out  his  own  peculiar 
end,  to  set  at  defiance  those  constant  laws  which  have  arisen 
out  of  our  lower  and  changeless  desires,  that  whose  purpose 
is  unseen,  is  frequently  in  its  means  and  parts  displeasing. 

But  this  want  of  extended  influence  in  high  art,  be  it  espe- 
cially observed,  proceeds  from  no  want  of  truth  in  the  art 
itself,  but  from  a  want  of  sympathy  in  the  spectator  with 
those  feelings  in  the  artist  which  prompt  him  to  the  utter- 
ance of  one  truth  rather  than  of  another.  For 
necessary  to  the  (and  this  is  what  I  wish  at  present  especially  to 
second.  insist  upon)  although  it  is  possible  to  reach 

what  I  have  stated  to  be  the  first  end  of  art,  the  representa- 
tion of  facts,  without  reaching  the  second,  the  representation 
of  thoughts,  yet  it  is  altogether  impossible  to  reach  the 
second  without  having  previously  reached  the  first.  I  do 
not  say  that  a  man  cannot  think,  having  false  basis  and  ma- 
terial for  thought  ;  but  that  a  false  thought  is  worse  than 
the  want  of  thought,  and  therefore  is  not  art.  And  this 
is  the  reason  why,  though  I  consider  the  second  as  the  real 
and  only  important  end  of  all  art,  I  call  the  representation  of 
facts  the  first  end  ;  because  it  is  necessary  to  the  other,  and 
must  be  attained  before  it.  It  is  the  foundation  of  all  art  ; 
like  real  foundations  it  maybe  little  thought  of  when  a  brill- 
iant fabric  is  raised  on  it ;  but  it  must  be  there  :  and  as  few 
buildings  are  beautiful  unless  every  line  and  column  of  their 
mass  have  reference  to  their  foundation,  and  are  suggestive 
of  its  existence  and  strength,  so  nothing  can  be  beautiful  in 
art  which  does  not  in  all  its  parts  suggest  and  guide  to  the 
foundation,  even  where  no  undecorated  portion  of  it  is  visi- 
ble ;  while  the  noblest  edifices  of  art  are  built  of  such  pure 
and  fine  crystal  that  the  foundation  may  all  be  seen  through 
them  ;  and  then  many,  while  they  do  not  see  what  is  built 
upon  that  first  story,  yet  much  admire  the  solidity  of  its 
brickwork  ;  thinking  they  understand  all  that  is  to  be  under- 
stood of  the  matter  ;  while  others  stand  beside  them,  looking 
not  at  the  low  story,  but  up  into  the  heaven  at  that  building 
of  crystal  in  which  the  builder's  s|)irit  is  dwelling.  And 
Vol.  I.— 8 


114 


OF  IDEAS  OF  TRUTH, 


thus,  though  we  want  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  artist 
as  well  as  the  truth,  yet  they  must  be  thoughts  arising  out 
of  the  knowledge  of  truth,  and  feelings  raising  out  of  the 
contemplation  of  truth.  We  do  not  want  his  mind  to  be  as 
badly  blown  glass,  that  distorts  what  we  see  through  it  ;  but 
like  a  glass  of  sweet  and  strange  color,  that  gives  new  tones 
to  what  we  see  through  it  ;  and  a  glass  of  rare  strength  and 
clearness  too,  to  let  us  see  more  than  we  could  ourselves, 
and  bring  nature  up  to  us  and  near  to  us.  Nothing  can 
atone  for  the  want  of  truth,  not  the  most  brilliant  imagina- 
tion, the  most  playful  fancy,  the  most  pure  feeling,  (suppos- 
ing that  feeling  could  be  pure  and  false  at  the  same  time  ;) 
§8  The  exceed  most  exalted  conccption,  nor  the  most 

ing  importance  comprehensive  errasp   of   intellect,  can  make 

of  truth.  TP        i  r.  T  -.1 

amends  tor  the  want  ot  truth,  and  that  for  two 
reasons  ;  first,  because  falsehood  is  in  itself  revolting  and 
degrading  ;  and  secondly,  because  nature  is  so  immeasurably 
superior  to  all  that  the  human  mind  can  conceive,  that  every 
departure  from  her  is  a  fall  beneath  her,  so  that  there  can  be 
no  such  thing  as  an  ornamental  falsehood.  All  falsehood 
must  be  a  blot  as  well  as  a  sin,  an  injury  as  well  as  a  decep- 
tion. 

We  shall,  in  consequence,  find  that  no  artist 

§  9.  Coldness  or  ,  i?  i    •  •      .  •  •    •      i  i 

want  of  beauty  no  Can  be  gracciul,  imaginative,  or  original,  unless 
sign  of  truth.  truthful  ;  and  that  the  pursuit  of  beauty, 

instead  of  leading  us  away  from  truth,  increases  the  desire 
for  it  and  the  necessity  of  it  tenfold  ;  so  that  those  artists 
who  are  really  great  in  imaginative  power,  will  be  found  to 
have  based  their  boldness  of  conception  on  a  mass  of  knowl- 
edge far  exceeding  that  possessed  by  those  who  pride  them- 
selves on  its  accumulation  without  regarding  its  use.  Cold- 
ness and  want  of  passion  in  a  picture,  are  not  signs  of  the 
accuracy,  but  of  the  paucity  of  its  statements  ;  true  vigor 
and  brilliancy  are  not  signs  of  audacity,  but  of  knowledge. 
§  10.  How  truth  Hence  it  follows  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  all, 
Sed  a^jusrcri-  ^^^th  ^^^^  time,  to  form  something  like  a 

terion  of  all  art.  j^g^  judgment  of  the  relative  merits  of  ar- 
tists ;  for  although  with  respect  to  the  feeling  and  pas- 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCERNED.  115 


sion  of  pictures,  it  is  often  as  impossible  to  criticise  as  to 
appreciate,  except  to  such  as  are  in  some  degree  equal  in 
powers  of  mind,  and  in  some  respects  the  same  in  modes  of 
mind,  with  those  whose  works  they  judge  ;  yet,  with  respect 
to  the  representation  of  facts,  it  is  possible  for  all,  by  atten- 
tion, to  form  a  right  judgment  of  the  respective  powers  and 
attainments  of  every  artist.  Truth  is  a  bar  of  comparison  at 
which  they  may  all  be  examined,  and  according  to  the  rank 
they  take  in  this  examination,  will  almost  invariably  be  that 
which,  if  capable  of  appreciating  them  in  every  respect,  we 
should  be  just  in  assigning  them  ;  so  strict  is  the  connec- 
■  tion,  so  constant  the  relation  between  the  sum  of  knowledge 
and  the  extent  of  thought,  between  accuracy  of  perception 
and  vividness  of  idea. 

I  shall  endeavor,  therefore,  in  the  present  portion  of  the 
work,  to  enter,  with  care  and  impartiality  into  the  investiga- 
tion of  the  claims  of  the  schools  of  ancient  and  modern  land- 
scape to  faithfulness  in  representing  nature.  I  shall  pay  no 
regard  whatsoever  to  what  may  be  thought  beautiful,  or  sub- 
lime, or  imaginative.  I  shall  look  only  for  truth  ;  bare,  clear, 
downright  statement  of  facts  ;  showing  in  each  particular, 
as  far  as  I  am  able,  what  the  truth  of  nature  is,  and  then 
seeking  for  the  plain  expression  of  it,  and  for  that  alone. 
And  I  shall  thus  endeavor,  totally  regardless  of  fervor  of 
imagination  or  brilliancy  of  effect,  or  any  other  of  their  more 
captivating  qualities,  to  examine  and  to  judge  the  works  of 
the  great  living  painter,  who  is,  I  believe,  imagined  by  the 
majority  of  the  public  to  paint  more  falsehood  and  less  fact 
than  any  other  known  master.  We  shall  see  with  what 
reason. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THAT  THE  TRUTH  OF  NATURE  IS  NOT  TO  BE  DISCERNED  BY 
THE  UNEDUCATED  SENSES. 

It  may  be  here  inquired  by  the  reader,  with  much  appear- 
ance of  reason,  why  I  think  it  necessary  to  devote  a  separate 


116 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCERNED. 


portion  of  the  work  to  the  showing  of  what  is  truthful  in 
art.  "  Cannot  we/'  say  the  public,  "see  what  nature  is  with 
„ ^,  our  own  eyes,  and  find  out  for  ourselves  what 

§  1.  The  common  ^ 

self-deception  of  is  like  her  ?  "    It  will  be  as  well  to  determine 

men  with  respect  •        i  p 

to  their  power  of  this  QUBstion  before  we  go  farther,  because  if 

discerning  truth.  .  ^  ^       i      i       t  i 

this  were  possible,  there  would  be  little  need 
of  criticism  or  teaching  with  respect  to  art. 

Now  I  have  just  said  that  it  is  possible  for  all  men,  by  care 
and  attention,  to  form  a  just  judgment  of  the  fidelity  of 
artists  to  nature.  To  do  this,  no  peculiar  powers  of  mind 
are  required,  no  sympathy  with  particular  feelings,  nothing 
which  every  man  of  ordinary  intellect  does  not  in  some  de- 
gree possess, — powers,  namely,  of  observation  and  intelli- 
gence, which  by  cultivation  may  be  brought  to  a  high  degree 
of  perfection  and  acuteness.  But  until  this  cultivation  has 
been  bestowed,  and  until  the  instrument  thereby  perfected 
has  been  employed  in  a  consistent  series  of  careful  observa- 
tion, it  is  as  absurd  as  it  is  audacious  to  pretend  to  form  any 
judgment  whatsoever  respecting  the  truth  of  art  :  and  my 
first  business,  before  going  a  step  farther,  must  be  to  combat 
the  nearly  universal  error  of  belief  among  the  thoughtless 
and  unreflecting,  that  they  know  either  what  nature  is,  or 
what  is  like  her,  that  they  can  discover  truth  by  instinct, 
and  that  their  minds  are  such  pure  Venice  glass  as  to  be 
shocked  by  all  treachery.  I  have  to  prove  to  them  that  there 
are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in 
their  philosophy,  and  that  the  truth  of  nature  is  a  part  of  the 
truth  of  God  ;  to  him  who  does  not  search  it  out,  darkness,  - 
as  it  is  to  him  who  does,  infinity. 

The  first  great  mistake  that  people  make  in  the  matter,  is 
the  supposition  that  they  must  see  a  thing  if  it  be  before 
their  eyes.  They  forget  the  great  truth  told  them  by 
§2.  Men  usually  Lockc,  Book  ii.  chap.  9,  §  3  I— "  This  is  cer- 
irbefore^^  thek  whatever  alterations  are  made  in  the 

body,  if  they  reach  not  the  mind,  whatever  im- 
pressions are  made  on  the  outward  parts,  if  they  are  not 
taken  notice  of  within,  there  is  no  perception.  Fire  may 
burn  our  bodies,  with  no  other  effect  than  it  does  a  billet. 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCERNED.  117 


unless  the  motion  be  continued  to  the  brain,  and  there  the 
sense  of  heat  or  idea  of  pain  be  produced  in  the  mind, 
wherein  consists  actual  perception.  IIow  often  may  a  man 
observe  in  himself,  that  while  his  mind  is  intently  employed 
in  the  contemplation  of  some  subjects  and  curiously  survey- 
ing some  ideas  that  are  there,  it  takes  no  notice  of  impres- 
sions of  sounding  bodies,  made  upon  the  organ  of  hearing, 
with  the  same  attention  that  uses  to  be  for  the  producing 
the  ideas  of  sound  !  A  sufficient  impulse  there  may  be  on 
the  organ,  but  it  not  reaching  the  observation  of  the  mind, 
there  follows  no  perception,  and  though  the  motion  that  uses 
to  produce  the  idea  of  sound  be  made  in  the  ear,  yet  no 
sound  is  heard."  And  what  is  here  said,  which  all  must  feel 
by  their  own  experience  to  be  true,  is  more  remarkably  and 
necessarily  the  case  with  sight  than  with  any  other  of 
the  senses,  for  this  reason,  that  the  ear  is  not  accustomed  to 
exercise  constantly  its  functions  of  hearing  ;  it  is  accustomed 
to  stillness,  and  the  occurrence  of  a  sound  of  any  kind  what- 
soever is  apt  to  awake  attention,  and  be  followed  with  per- 
ception, in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  sound  ;  but  the  eye, 
during  our  waking  hours,  exercises  constantly  its  function 
of  seeing  ;  it  is  its  constant  habit  ;  we  always,  as  far  as  the 
bodily  organ  is  concerned,  see  something,  and  we  always  see 
in  the  same  degree,  so  that  the  occurrence  of  sight,  as  such, 
to  the  eye,  is  only  the  continuance  of  its  necessary  state  of 
action,  and  awakes  no  attention  whatsoever,  except  by  the 
particular  nature  and  quality  of  the  sight.  And  thus,  unless 
the  minds  of  men  are  particularly  directed  to  the  impressions 
of  sight,  objects  pass  perpetually  before  the  eyes  without 
conveying  any  impression  to  the  brain  at  all  ;  and  so  pass 
actually  unseen,  not  merely  unnoticed,  but  in  the  full,  clear 
sense  of  the  word,  unseen.  And  numbers  of  men  being  pre- 
occupied with  business  or  care  of  some  description,  totally 
unconnected  with  the  impressions  of  sight,  such  is  actually 
the  case  with  them,  they  receiving  from  nature  only  the  in- 
evitable sensations  of  blueness,  redness,  darkness,  light,  etc., 
and  except  at  particular  and  rare  moments,  no  more  what- 
soever. 


118  TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCERNED. 


The  degree  of  ignorance  of  external  nature  in  which  men 
may  thus  remain,  depends,  therefore,  partly  on  the  number 
§  3.  But  more  or  and  character  of  the  subjects  with  which  their 
tion  to^thdr^nl-  mi^ds  may  be  otherwise  occupied,  and  partly 
to\t^ha?^s^beaS  ^  natural  want  of  sensibility  to  the  power 
of  beauty  of  form,  and  the  other  attributes  of 
external  objects.  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  ever  such 
absolute  incapacity  in  the  eye  for  distinguishing  and  re- 
ceiving pleasure  from  certain  forms  and  colors,  as  there 
is  in  persons  who  are  technically  said  to  have  no  ear^  for 
distinguishing  notes,  but  there  is  naturally  every  degree 
of  bluntness  and  acuteness,  both  for  perceiving  the  truth  of 
form,  and  for  receiving  pleasure  from  it  when  perceived. 
And  although  I  believe  even  the  lowest  degree  of  these 
faculties  can  be  expanded  almost  unlimitedly  by  cultivation, 
the  pleasure  received  rewards  not  the  labor  necessary,  and 
the  pursuit  is  abandoned.  So  that  while  in  those  whose 
sensations  are  naturally  acute  and  vivid,  the  call  of  external 
nature  is  so  strong  that  it  must  be  obeyed,  and  is  ever  heard 
louder  as  the  approach  to  her  is  nearer, — in  those  whose  sen- 
sations are  naturally  blunt,  the  call  is  overpowered  at  once 
by  other  thoughts,  and  their  faculties  of  perception,  weak 
§  4.  Connected  Originally,  die  of  disuse.  With  this  kind  of 
Itate  of  ^  moral  t)odily  Sensibility  to  color  and  form  is  inti- 
feeiing.  mately  connected  that  higher  sensibility  which 

we  revere  as  one  of  the  chief  attributes  of  all  rioble 
minds,  and  as  the  chief  spring  of  real  poetry.  I  believe 
this  kind  of  sensibility  may  be  entirely  resolved  into  the 
acuteness  of  bodily  sense  of  which  I  have  been  speaking, 
associated  with  love,  love  I  mean  in  its  infinite  and  holy 
functions,  as  it  embraces  divine  and  human  and  brutal  intel- 
ligences, and  hallows  the  physical  perception  of  external 
objects  by  association,  gratitude,  veneration,  and  other  pure 
feelings  of  our  moral  nature.  And  although  the  discovery 
of  truth  is  in  itself  altogether  intellectual,  and  dependent 
merely  on  our  powers  of  physical  perception  and  abstract 
intellect,  wholly  independent  of  our  moral  nature,  yet  these 
instruments  (perception  and  judgment)  are  so  sharpened  and 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCERNED, 


119 


brightened,  and  so  far  more  swiftly  and  effectively  used, 
when  they  have  the  energy  and  passion  of  our  moral  nature 
to  bring  them  into  action — perception  is  so  quickened  by 
love,  and  judgment  so  tempered  by  veneration,  that,  practi- 
cally, a  man  of  deadened  moral  sensation  is  always  dull  in 
his  perception  of  truth,  and  thousands  of  the  highest  and 
most  divine  truths  of  nature  are  wholly  concealed  from  him, 
however  constant  and  indefatigable  may  be  his  intellectual 
search.  Thus,  then,  the  farther  we  look,  the  more  we  are 
limited  in  the  number  of  those  to  whom  we  should  choose  to 
appeal  as  judges  of  truth,  and  the  more  we  perceive  how 
great  a  number  of  mankind  may  be  partially  incapacitated 
from  either  discovering  or  feeling  it. 

Next  to  sensibility,  which  is  necessary  for 
fnteiitctuai^pow^  the  perception  of  facts,  come  reflection  and 
^^^*  memory,  which  are  necessary  for  the  retention 

of  them,  and  recognition  of  their  resemblances.  For  a  man 
may  receive  impression  after  impression,  and  that  vividly 
and  with  delight,  and  yet,  if  he  take  no  care  to  reason  upon 
those  impresions  and  trace  them  to  their  sources,  he  may 
remain  totally  ignorant  of  the  facts  that  produced  them  ; 
nay,  may  attribute  them  to  facts  with  which  they  have  no 
connection,  or  may  coin  causes  for  them  that  have  no  exist- 
ence at  all.  And  the  more  sensibility  and  imagination  a 
man  possesses,  the  more  likely  will  he  be  to  fall  into  error  ; 
for  then  he  will  see  whatever  he  expects,  and  admire  and 
judge  with  his  heart,  and  not  with  his  eyes.  How  many 
people  are  misled,  by  what  has  been  said  and  sung  of  the 
serenity  of  Italian  skies,  to  suppose  they  must  be  more  blue 
than  the  skies  of  the  north,  and  think  that  they  see  them 
so  ;  whereas,  the  sky  of  Italy  is  far  more  dull  and  gray  in 
color  than  the  skies  of  the  north,  and  is  distinguished  only 
by  its  intense  repose  of  light.  And  this  is  confirmed  by 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  who,  I  remember,  on  his  first  entering 
France,  is  especially  struck  with  the  clearness  of  the  sky,  as 
contrasted  with  the  mist  of  Italy.  And  what  is  more  strange 
still,  when  people  see  in  a  painting  what  they  suppose  to 
have  been  the  source  of  their  impressions,  they  will  affirm  it 


120 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCEENED, 


to  be  truthful,  though  they  feel  no  such  impression  resulting 
from  it.  Thus,  though  day  after  day  they  may  have  been 
impressed  by  the  tone  and  warmth  of  an  Italian  sky,  yet 
not  having  traced  the  feeling  to  its  source,  and  supposing 
themselves  impressed  by  its  blueness,  they  will  affirm  a  blue 
sky  in  a  painting  to  be  truthful,  and  reject  the  most  faithful 
rendering  of  all  the  real  attributes  of  Italy  as  cold  or  dull. 
§6.  How  Bight  And  this  influence  of  the  imagination  over  the 
ll^^vkjus  kno^w?  senses,  is  peculiarly  observable  in  the  perpetual 
disposition  of  mankind  to  suppose  that  they  see 
what  they  /cnoWy  and  vice  versa  in  their  not  seeing  what  they 
do  not  know.  Thus,  if  a  child  be  asked  to  draw  the  corner  of 
a  house,  he  will  lay  down  something  in  the  form  of  the  letter 
T.  He  has  no  conception  that  the  two  lines  of  the  roof, 
which  he  knows  to  be  level,  produce  on  his  eye  the  impres- 
sion of  a  slope.  It  requires  repeated  and  close  attention 
before  he  detects  this  fact,  or  can  be  made  to  feel  that  the 
lines  on  his  paper  are  false.  And  the  Chinese,  children  in 
all  things,  suppose  a  good  perspective  drawing  to  be  as  false 
as  we  feel  their  plate  patterns  to  be,  or  wonder  at  the  strange 
buildings  which  come  to  a  point  at  the  end.  And  all  the 
early  works,  whether  of  nations  or  of  men,  show,  by  their 
want  of  shade,  how  little  the  eye,  without  knowledge,  is  to 
be  depended  upon  to  discover  truth.  The  eye  of  a  Red 
Indian,  keen  enough  to  find  the  trace  of  his  enemy  or  his 
prey,  even  in  the  unnatural  turn  of  a  trodden  leaf,  is  yet  so 
blunt  to  the  impressions  of  shade,  that  Mr.  Catlin  mentions 
his  once  having  been  in  great  danger  from  having  painted  a 
portrait  with  the  face  in  half-light,  which  the  untutored  ob- 
servers imagined  and  affirmed  to  be  the  painting  of  half  a 
face.  Barry,  in  his  sixth  lecture,  takes  notice  of  the  same 
want  of  actual  si(/ht  in  the  early  painters  of  Italy.  "  The 
imitations,"  he  says,  "  of  early  art  are  like  those  of  children 
— nothing  is  seen  in  the  spectacle  before  us,  unless  it  be 
previoii-sly  known  and  sought  for  ;  and  numberless  observ- 
able d^erences  between  the  age  of  ignorance  and  that  of 
^knovi'Iedge,  show  how  much  the  contraction  or  extension  of 
our  sphere  of  vision  depends  upon  other  considerations  than 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISCERNED. 


121 


the  mere  returns  of  our  natural  optics."  And  the  deception 
which  takes  place  so  broadly  in  cases  like  these,  has  infinitely 
greater  influence  over  our  judgment  of  the  more  intricate  and 
less  tangible  truths  of  nature.  We  are  constantly  supposing 
that  we  see  what  experience  only  has  shown  us,  or  can  show  us, 
to  have  existence,  constantly  missing  the  sight  of  what  we  do 
not  know  beforehand  to  be  visible  :  and  painters,  to  the  last 
hour  of  their  lives,  are  apt  to  fall  in  some  degree  into  the  error 
of  painting  what  exists,  rather  than  what  they  can  see.  I 
shall  prove  the  extent  of  this  error  more  completely  hereafter. 
§7.  The  difficulty  Be  it  also  observed,  that  all  these  difficulties 
variety  ^truths  would  lie  in  the  wav,  even  if  the  truths  of 
m  nature.  nature  Were  always  the  same,  constantly  re- 

peated and  brought  before  us.  But  the  truths  of  nature 
are  one  eternal  change — one  infinite  variety.  There  is  no 
bush  on  the  face  of  the  globe  exactly  like  another  bush  ; — 
there  are  no  two  trees  in  the  forest  whose  boughs  bend  into 
the  same  network,  nor  two  leaves  on  the  same  tree  which 
could  not  be  told  one  from  the  other,  nor  two  waves  in  the 
sea  exactly  alike.  And  out  of  this  mass  of  various,  yet 
agreeing  beauty,  it  is  by  long  attention  only  that  the  con- 
ception of  the  constant  character — the  ideal  form — hinted  at 
by  all,  yet  assumed  by  none,  is  fixed  upon  the  imagination 
for  its  standard  of  truth. 

It  is  not  singular,  therefore,  nor  in  any  way  disgraceful, 
that  the  majority  of  spectators  are  totally  incapable  of  ap- 
preciating the  truth  of  nature,  when  fully  set  before  them  ; 
but  it  is  both  singular  and  disgraceful  that  it  is  so  difficult 
to  convince  them  of  their  own  incapability.  Ask  the  con- 
noisseur, who  has  scampered  over  all  Europe,  the  shape  of 
the  leaf  of  an  elm,  and  the  chances  are  ninety  to  one  that  he 
cannot  tell  you  ;  and  yet  he  will  be  voluble  of  criticism  on 
every  painted  landscape  from  Dresden  to  Madrid,  and  pre- 
tend to  tell  you  whether  they  are  like  nature  or  not.  Ask 
an  enthusiastic  chatterer  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  how  many 
ribs  he  has,  and  you  get  no  answer  ;  but  it  is  odds  that  you 
do  not  get  out  of  the  door  without  his  informing  you  that  he 
considers  such  and  such  a  figure  badly  drawn  ! 


122  TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DISGEBNED. 


A  few  such  interrogations  as  these  might  indeed  convict, 
if  not  convince  the  mass  of  spectators  of  incapability,  were 
it  not  for  the  universal  reply,  that  they  can  recognize  what 
§8.  We  recognize  they  Cannot  describe,  and  feel  what  is  truthful, 
Te^sT^^importLnt  though  they  do  not  know  what  is  truth.  And 
pTre^Par^t^L,  ^^^^  ^  Certain  degree,  true  :  a  man  may 

Sect.  I.,  Chap.  4.  recognize  the  portrait  of  his  friend,  though  he 
cannot,  if  you  ask  him  apart,  tell  you  the  shape  of  his 
nose  or  the  height  of  his  forehead  ;  and  every  one  could 
tell  nature  herself  from  an  imitation  ;  why  not  then,  it  will 
be  asked,  what  is  like  her  from  what  is  not  ?  For  this 
simple  reason,  that  we  constantly  recognize  things  by  their 
least  important  attributes,  and  by  help  of  very  few  of  those, 
and  if  these  attributes  exist  not  in  the  imitation,  though 
there  may  be  thousands  of  others  far  higher  and  more  valu- 
able, yet  if  those  be  wanting,  or  imperfectly  rendered,  by 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  recognize  the  object,  we  deny 
the  likeness  ;  while  if  these  be  given,  though  all  the  great 
and  valuable  and  important  attributes  may  be  wanting,  we 
affirm  the  likeness.  Recognition  is  no  proof  of  real  and  in- 
trinsic resemblance.  We  recognize  our  books  by  their  bind- 
ings, though  the  true  and  essential  characteristics  lie  inside. 
A  man  is  known  to  his  dog  by  the  smell — to  his  tailor  by 
the  coat — to  his  friend  by  the  smile  :  each  of  these  know 
him,  but  how  little,  or  how  much,  depends  on  the  dignity 
of  the  intelligence.  That  which  is  truly  and  indeed  charac- 
teristic of  the  man,  is  known  only  to  God.  One  portrait  of 
a  man  may  possess  exact  accuracy  of  feature,  and  no  atom 
of  expression  ;  it  may  be,  to  use  the  ordinary  terms  of  ad- 
miration bestowed  on  such  portraits  by  those  whom  they 
please,  as  like  as  it  can  stare."  Everybody,  down  to  his 
cat,  would  know  this.  Another  portrait  may  have  neglected 
or  misrepresented  the  features,  but  may  have  given  the  flash 
of  the  eye,  and  the  peculiar  radiance  of  the  lip,  seen  on  him 
only  in  his  hours  of  highest  mental  excitement.  None  but 
his  friends  would  know  this.  Another  may  have  given  none 
of  his  ordinary  expressions,  but  one  which  he  wore  in  the 
most  excited  instant  of  his  life,  when  all  his  secret  passions 


TRUTH  NOT  EASILY  DI8CEENED, 


123 


and  all  his  highest  powers  were  brought  into  play  at  once. 
None  but  those  who  had  then  seen  him  might  recognize  this 
as  like.  But  which  would  be  the  most  truthful  portrait  of 
the  man  ?  The  first  gives  the  accidents  of  body — the  sport 
of  climate,  and  food,  and  time — which  corruption  inhabits, 
and  the  worm  waits  for.  The  second  gives  the  stamp  of  the 
soul  upon  the  flesh  ;  but  it  is  the  soul  seen  in  the  emotions 
which  it  shares  with  many — which  may  not  be  characteristic 
of  its  essence — the  results  of  habit,  and  education,  and  acci- 
dent— a  gloze,  whether  purposely  worn  or  unconsciously  as- 
sumed, perhaps  totally  contrary  to  all  that  is  rooted  and 
real  in  the  mind  that  it  conceals.  The  third  has  caught  the 
trace  of  all  that  was  most  hidden  and  most  mighty,  when 
all  hypocrisy,  and  all  habit,  and  all  petty  and  passing  emo- 
tion— the  ice,  and  the  bank,  and  the  foam  of  the  immortal 
river — were  shivered,  and  broken,  and  swallowed  up  in  the 
awakening  of  its  inward  strength  ;  when  the  call  and  claim 
of  some  divine  motive  had  brought  into  visible  being  those 
latent  forces  and  feelings  which  the  spirit's  own  volition 
could  not  summon,  nor  its  consciousness  comprehend  ;  which 
God  only  knew,  and  God  only  could  awaken,  the  depth  and 
the  mystery  of  its  peculiar  and  separating  attributes.  And 
so  it  is  with  external  Nature  :  she  has  a  body  and  a  soul 
like  man  ;  but  her  soul  is  the  Deity.  It  is  possible  to  repre- 
sent the  body  without  the  spirit  ;  and  this  shall  be  like  to 
those  whose  senses  are  only  cognizant  of  body.  It  is  possi- 
ble to  represent  the  spirit  in  its  ordinary  and  inferior  mani- 
festations ;  and  this  shall  be  like  to  those  who  have  not 
watched  for  its  moments  of  power.  It  is  possible  to  repre- 
sent the  spirit  in  its  secret  and  high  operations  ;  and  this 
shall  be  like  only  to  those  to  whose  watching  they  have  been 
revealed.  All  these  are  truth ;  but  according  to  the  dignity 
of  the  truths  he  can  represent  or  feel,  is  the  power  of  the 
painter, — the  justice  of  the  judge. 


124 


OF  THE  RELATIVE 


CHAPTER  III. 


OF  THE  RELATIVE  IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS  : — FIRST,  THAT 
PARTICULAR  TRUTHS  ARE  MORE  IMPORTANT  THAN  GEN- 
ERAL ONES. 

I  HAVE  in  the  last  chapter  affirmed  that  we  usually  recog- 
nize objects  by  their  least  essential  characteristics.  This 
very  naturally  excites  the  inquiry  what  I  consider  their  im- 
§  1.  Necessity  of  portant  characteristics,  and  why  I  call  one  truth 
refatwe^^^mpor-  Tnore  important  than  another.  And  this  ques- 
tance  of  truths,  ^'^j^  must  be  immediately  determined,  because 
it  is  evident,  that  in  judging  of  the  truth  of  painters,  we 
shall  have  to  consider  not  only  the  accuracy  with  which  in- 
dividual truths  are  given,  but  the  relative  importance  of  the 
truths  themselves  ;  for  as  it  constantly  happens  that  the 
powers  of  art  are  unable  to  render  all  truths,  that  artist 
must  be  considered  the  most  truthful  who  has  preserved  the 
most  important  at  the  expense  of  the  most  trifling. 
§  2.  Misappiica-  Now  if  wc  are  to  begin  our  investigation  in 
orism''^'Gen?ral  Aristotle's  Way,  and  look  at  the  ^aci/oVci/a  of  the 
impOTtant  than  subjcct,  we  shall  immediately  stumble  over  a 
particular  ones."  maxim  which  is  in  everybody's  mouth,  and 
which,  as  it  is  understood  in  practice,  is  true  and  useful,  as 
it  is  usually  applied  in  argument,  false  and  misleading. 
"  General  truths  are  more  important  than  particular  ones." 
Often,  when  in  conversation,  I  have  been  praising  Turner 
for  his  perpetual  variety,  and  for  giving  so  particular  and 
separate  a  character  to  each  of  his  compositions,  that  the 
mind  of  the  painter  can  only  be  estimated  by  seeing  all  that 
he  has  ever  done,  and  that  nothing  can  be  prophesied  of  a 
picture  coming  into  existence  on  his  easel,  but  that  it  will 
be  totally  different  in  idea  from  all  that  he  has  ever  done 
before  ;  and  when  I  have  opposed  this  inexhaustible  knowl- 
edge or  imagination,  whichever  it  may  be,  to  the  perpetual 


IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS.  125 

repetition  of  some  half-dozen  conceptions  by  Claude  and 
Poussin,  I  have  been  met  by  the  formidable  objection, 
enunciated  with  much  dignity  and  self-satisfaction  on  the 
part  of  my  antagonist — "  That  is  not  painting  general  truths, 
§3.  Falseness  of  that  is  painting  particular  truths."  Now  there 
\vithSrt^S)ian^^  must  be  something  wrong  in  that  application  of 
a  principle  which  would  make  the  variety  and 
abundance  which  we  look  for  as  the  greatest  sign  of  intellect 
in  the  writer,  the  greatest  sign  of  error  in  the  painter  ;  and 
we  shall  accordingly  see,  by  an  application  of  it  to  other 
matters,  that,  taken  without  limitation,  the  whole  proposi- 
tion is  utterly  false.  For  instance,  Mrs.  Jameson  somewhere 
mentions  the  exclamation  of  a  lady  of  her  acquaintance, 
more  desirous  to  fill  a  pause  in  conversation  than  abundant 
in  sources  of  observation  :  "  What  an  excellent  book  the 
Bible  is  !  "  This  was  a  very  general  truth  indeed,  a  truth 
predicable  of  the  Bible  in  common  with  many  other  books, 
but  it  certainly  is  neither  striking  nor  important.  Had  the 
lady  exclaimed — "  How  evidently  is  the  Bible  a  divine  reve- 
lation !  "  she  would  have  expressed  a  particular  truth,  one 
predicable  of  the  Bible  only  ;  but  certainly  far  more  interest- 
ing and  important.  Had  she,  on  the  contrary,  informed  us 
that  the  Bible  was  a  book,  she  would  have  been  still  more 
general,  and  still  less  entertaining.  If  I  ask  any  one  who 
somebody  else  is,  and  receive  for  answer  that  he  is  a  man,  I 
get  little  satisfaction  for  my  pains  ;  but  if  I  am  told  that  he 
is  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  I  immediately  thank  my  neighbor  for 
^ ,  ^  his  information.    The  fact  is,  and  the  above  in- 

§  4.  Generality  ' 

important  in  the  stanccs  mav  serve  at  once  to  prove  it  if  it  be  not 

subject,     parti-  •  i  i  t 

cuiarity  in  the  seli-evident,  that  generality  gives  importance  to 
predicate.  ^j^^  siibject,  and  limitation  or  particularity  to  the 

predicate.  If  I  say  that  such  and  such  a  man  in  China  is  an 
opium-eater,  I  say  nothing  very  interesting,  because  my  sub- 
ject (such  a  man)  is  particular.  If  I  say  that  all  men  in  China 
are  opium-eaters,  I  say  something  interesting,  because  my 
subject  (all  men)  is  general.  If  I  say  that  all  men  in  China 
eat,  I  say  nothing  interesting,  because  my  predicate  (eat) 
is  general.    If  I  say  that  ail  men  in  China  eat  opium,  I  say 


126  OF  THE  RELATIVE 

something  interesting,  because  my  predicate  (eat  opium)  is 
particular. 

Now  almost  everything  which  (with  reference  to  a  given 
subject)  a  painter  has  to  ask  himself  whether  he  shall  repre- 
sent or  not,  is  a  predicate-  Hence  in  art,  particular  truths 
are  usually  more  important  than  general  ones. 

How  is  it  then  that  anything  so  plain  as  this  should  be  con- 
tradicted by  one  of  the  most  universally  received  aphorisms 
respecting  art  ?    A  little  reflection  will  show  us  under  what 
limitations  this  maxim  may  be  true  in  practice. 
„^       .i  It  is  self-evident  that  when  we  are  paintinsr 

§  5.  The  impor-  ...  r  & 

tance  of  truths   or  dcscribino;  anvthinsT,  those  truths  must  be  the 

of  species  is  not  .  i  •  i  .     .  « 

owing  to  their  most  important  which  are  most  characteristic  of 
generahty.  vv'hat  is  to  be  told  or  represented.  Now  that 
which  is  first  and  most  broadly  characteristic  of  a  thing,  is  that 
which  distinguishes  its  genus,  or  which  makes  it  what  it  is. 
For  instance,  that  which  makes  drapery  he  drapery,  is  not  its 
being  made  of  silk  or  worsted  or  flax,  for  things  are  made  of 
all  these  which  are  not  drapery,  but  the  ideas  peculiar 
to  drapery  ;  the  properties  which,  when  inherent  in  a  thing, 
make  it  drapery,  are  extension,  non-elastic  flexibility,  unity 
and  comparative  thinness.  Everything  which  has  these  prop- 
erties, a  waterfall,  for  instance,  if  united  and  extended,  or  a 
net  of  weeds  over  a  wall,  is  drapery,  as  much  as  silk 
or  woollen  stuff  is.  So  that  these  ideas  separate  drapery  in 
our  minds  from  everything  else  ;  they  are  peculiarly  charac- 
teristic of  it,  and  therefore  are  the  most  important  group 
of  ideas  connected  with  it  ;  and  so  with  everything  else,  that 
which  makes  the  thing  what  it  is,  is  the  most  important 
idea,  or  group  of  ideas  connected  with  the  thing.  But 
as  this  idea  must  necessarily  be  common  to  all  individuals  of 
the  species  it  belongs  to,  it  is  a  general  idea  with  respect  to 
that  species  ;  while  other  ideas,  which  are  not  characteristic 
of  the  species,  and  are  therefore  in  reality  general,  (as  black 
or  white  are  terms  applicable  to  more  things  than  drapery,) 
are  yet  particular  with  respect  to  that  species,  being  predi- 
cable  only  of  certain  individuals  of  it.  Hence  it  is  carelessly 
and  fasely  said,  that  general  ideas  are  more  important  than 


IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS. 


127 


particular  ones  ;  carelessly  and  falsely,  I  say,  because  the  so- 
called  general  idea  is  important,  not  because  it  is  common  to 
all  the  individuals  of  that  species,  but  because  it  separates 
that  species  from  everything  else.  It  is  the  distinctiveness, 
not  the  universality  of  the  truth,  vs^hich  renders  it  important. 
And  the  so-called  particular  idea  is  unimportant,  not  because 
it  is  not  predicable  of  the  whole  species,  but  because  it  is 
predicable  of  things  out  of  that  species.  It  is  not  its  in- 
dividuality, but  its  g-enerality  v^hich  renders  it 

§  6.  AU  truths  val-       .  i  i 

uabie  as  they  are  unimportant.    So,  then,  truths  are  important 

characteristic.        ,        .  .  .  ,  .     •  ,  •  i 

just  in  proportion  as  they  are  characteristic,  and 
are  valuable,  primarily,  as  they  separate  the  species  from  all 
other  created  things  secondarily,  as  they  separate  the  in- 
dividuals of  that  species  from  one  another  :  thus  silken  " 
or  "  woollen  "  are  unimportant  ideas  with  respect  to  drapery, 
because  they  neither  separate  the  species  from  other  things, 
nor  even  the  individuals  of  that  species  from  one  another, 
since,  though  not  common  to  the  whole  of  it,  they  are 
common  to  indefinite  numbers  of  it  ;  but  the  particular  folds 
into  which  any  piece  of  drapery  may  happen  to  fall,  being 
different  in  many  particulars  from  those  into  which  any  other 
piece  of  drapery  will  fall,  are  expressive  not  only  of  the 
characters  of  the  species,  flexibility  (non-elasticity,  etc.,)  but 
of  individuality  and  definite  character  in  the  case  immedi- 
ately observed,  and  are  consequently  most  important  and 
necessary  ideas.  So  in  a  man,  to  be  short -legged  or  long- 
nosed,  or  anything  else  of  accidental  quality,  does  not  dis- 
tinguish him  from  other  short-legged  or  long-nosed  animals; 
but  the  important  truths  respecting  a  man  are,  first,  the 
marked  development  of  that  distinctive  organization  which 
separates  him  as  man  from  other  animals,  and  secondly,  that 
group  of  qualities  which  distinguish  the  individual  from  all 
other  men,  which  make  him  Paul  or  Judas,  Newton  or 
Shakspeare. 

§  7.  otherwise  Such  are  the  real  sources  of  importance  in 
arfvaiuibi^be-  truths  as  far  as  they  are  considered  with  refer- 
cause  beautiful,  ence  merely  to  their  being  general,  or  particu- 
lar ;  but  there  are  other  sources  of  importance  which  give 


128 


OF  THE  RELATIVE 


farther  weight  to  the  ordinary  opinion  of  the  greater  value 
of  those  which  are  general,  and  which  render  this  opinion 
right  in  practice  ;  I  mean  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  the  truths 
themselves,  a  quality  which  it  is  not  here  the  place  to  inves- 
tigate, but  which  must  just  be  noticed,  as  invariably  adding 
value  to  truths  of  species  rather  than  to  those  of  individual- 
ity. The  qualities  and  properties  which  characterize  man 
or  any  other  animal  as  a  species,  are  the  perfection  of  his 
or  its  form  of  mind,  almost  all  individual  differences  arising 
from  imperfections  ;  hence  a  truth  of  species  is  the  more 
valuable  to  art,  because  it  must  always  be  a  beauty,  while 
a  truth  of  individuals  is  commonly,  in  some  sort  or  way,  a 
defect. 

§  8.  And  many  Again,  a  truth  which  may  be  of  great  inter- 
iT^eparair^^^^^  est,  wheu  an  object  is  viewed  by  itself,  may  be 
i?  ^^connection  objectionable  when  it  is  viewed  in  relation  to 
with  others.  other  objccts.  Thus  if  we  were  painting  a  piece 
of  drapery  as  our  whole  subject,  it  would  be  proper  to  give 
in  it  every  source  of  entertainment,  which  particular  truths 
could  supply,  to  give  it  varied  color  and  delicate  texture  ; 
but  if  we  paint  this  same  piece  of  drapery,  as  part  of  the 
dress  of  a  Madonna,  all  these  ideas  of  richness  or  texture  be- 
come thoroughly  contemptible,  and  unfit  to  occupy  the  mind 
at  the  same  moment  with  the  idea  of  the  Virgin.  The  con- 
ception of  drapery  is  then  to  be  suggested  by  the  simplest 
and  slightest  means  possible,  and  all  notions  of  texture  and 
detail  are  to  be  rejected  with  utter  reprobation  ;  but  this, 
observe,  is  not  because  they  are  particular  or  general  or  any- 
thing else,  with  respect  to  the  drapery  itself,  but  because 
they  draw  the  attention  to  the  dress  instead  of  the  saint,  and 
disturb  and  degrade  the  imagination  and  the  feelings  ;  hence 
we  ought  to  give  the  conception  of  the  drapery  in  the  most 
unobtrusive  way  possible,  by  rendering  those  essential  qual- 
ities distinctly,  which  are  necessary  to  the  very  existence  of 
drapery,  and  not  one  more. 

With  these  last  two  sources  of  the  importance  of  truths, 
we  have  nothing  to  do  at  present,  as  they  are  dependent 
upon  ideas  of  beauty  and  relation  :  I  merely  allude  to  them 


IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS. 


129 


now,  to  show  that  all  that  is  alleged  by  Sir  J.  Reynolds  and 
other  scientific  writers  respecting  the  kind  of  truths  proper 
to  be  represented  by  the  painter  or  sculptor  is  perfectly  just 
and  right  ;  while  yet  the  principle  on  which  they  base  their 
selection  (that  general  truths  are  more  important  than  par- 
ticular ones)  is  altogether  false.  Canova's  Perseus  in  the 
Vatican  is  entirely  spoiled  by  an  unlucky  tassel  in  the  folds 
of  the  mantle  (which  the  next  admirer  of  Canova  who  passes 
would  do  well  to  knock  off  ;)  but  it  is  spoiled  not  because 
this  is  a  particular  truth,  but  because  it  is  a  contemptible, 
unnecessary,  and  ugly  truth.  The  button  which  fastens  the 
vest  of  the  Sistine  Daniel  is  as  much  a  particular  truth  as 
this,  but  it  is  a  necessary  one,  and  the  idea  of  it  is  given  by 
the  simplest  possible  means  ;  hence  it  is  right  and  beautiful. 

Finally,  then,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  all  truths  as  far 
§  9.  Recapituia- '  their  being  particular  or  general  affects  their 
value  at  all,  are  valuable  in  proportion  as  they 
are  particular,  and  valueless  in  proportion  as  they  are  gen- 
eral ;  or  to  express  the  proposition  in  simpler  terms,  every 
truth  is  valuable  in  proportion  as  it  is  characteristic  of  the 
thing  of  which  it  is  affirmed. 


CHAPTER  lY. 

OF  THE  RELATIVE  IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS  :  SECONDLY,  THAT 

RARE  TRUTHS  ARE  MORE  IMPORTANT  THAN  FREQUENT 
ONES. 

It  will  be  necessary  next  for  us  to  determine  how  far  fre- 
quency  or  rarity  can  affect  the  importance  of 

§1.  No  accident-     ^  J  J  r 

ai  violation  of  truths,  and  whether  the  artist  is  to  be  considered 

nature's    princi-      ,  i  /.  i      i  •  i  • 

pies  should  be  the  most  truthful  who  paints  what  is  common  or 

represented.  i     .   •  i  •  , 

what  IS  unusual  in  nature. 
Now  the  whole  determination  of  this  question  depends  upon 
whether  the  unusual  fact  be  a  violation  of  nature's  general 
principles,  or  the  application  of  some  of  those  principles  in  a 
Vol.  I  — 9 


130 


OF  THE  BELATIVE 


peculiar  and  striking  way.  Nature  sometimes,  though  very 
rarely,  violates  her  own  principles  ;  it  is  her  principle  to  make 
everything  beautiful,  but  now  and  then,  for  an  instant,  she 
permits  what,  compared  with  the  rest  of  her  works,  might  be 
called  ugly  ;  it  is  true  that  even  these  rare  blemishes  are  per- 
mitted, as  I  have  above  said,  for  a  good  purpose,  (Part  I.  Sec. 
I.  Chap.  5,)  they  are  valuable  in  nature,  and  used  as  she  uses 
them,  are  equally  valuable  (as  instantaneous  discords)  in  art  ; 
but  the  artist  who  should  seek  after  these  exclusively,  and 
paint  nothing  else,  though  he  might  be  able  to  point  to  some- 
thing in  nature  as  the  original  of  every  one  of  his  uglinesses, 
would  yet  be,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  false, — false  to 
nature,  and  disobedient  to  her  laws.  For  instance,  it  is  the 
practice  of  nature  to  give  character  to  the  outlines  of  her 
clouds,  by  perpetual  angles  and  right  lines.  Perhaps  once  in 
a  month,  by  diligent  watching,  we  might  be  able  to  see  a 
cloud  altogether  rounded  and  made  up  of  curves  ;  but  the 
artist  who  paints  nothing  but  curved  clouds  must  yet  be  con- 
sidered thoroughly  and  inexcusably  false. 

But  the  case  is  widely  different,  when  instead  of  a  princi- 
ple violated,  we  have  one  extraordinarily  carried  out  or  mani- 
fested under  unusual  circumstances.  Though 

§2.  But  the  cases  .  • /.   i      i  i 

"in  which  those  nature  IS  Constantly  beautiful,  she  does  not  ex- 
brerf^^strikingiy  hibit  her  highest  powers  of  beauty  constantly, 
exemphfied.  then  they  would  satiate  us  and  pall  upon 

our  senses.     It  is  necessary  to  their  appreciation  that  they 
should  be  rarely  shown.    Her  finest  touches  are  things  which 
must  be  watched  for  :  her  most  perfect  passasres 

§  3.    Which  are      „  ,         ^  ^,  '  x       oi  • 

comparatively  oi  beauty  are  the  most  evanescent,  one  is  con- 
^^^®*  stantly  doing  something  beautiful  for  us,  but 

it  is  something  which  she  has  not  done  before  and  will  not  do 
again  ;  some  exhibition  of  her  general  powers  in  particular  cir- 
cumstances which,  if  we  do  not  catch  at  the  instant  it  is  pass- 
ing, will  not  be  repeated  for  us.  Now  they  are  these  evanes- 
cent passages  of  perfected  beauty,  these  perpetually  varied 
examples  of  utmost  power,  which  the  artist  ought  to  seek  for 
and  arrest.  No  supposition  can  be  more  absurd  than  that  ef- 
fects or  truths  frequently  exhibited  are  more  characteristic  of 


IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS, 


131 


nature  than  those  which  are  equally  necessary  by  her  laws, 
though  rarer  in  occurrence.  Both  the  frequent  and  the  rare 
are  parts  of  the  same  great  system  ;  to  give  either  exclusively 
is  imperfect  truth,  and  to  repeat  the  same  effect  or  thought  in 
AM     ....     two  pictures  is  wasted  life.     What  should  we 

§  4.  All  repetition  ^ 

is  biamabie.  think  of  a  poet  who  should  keep  all  his  life  re- 
peating the  same  thought  in  different  words  ?  and  why  should 
we  be  more  lenient  to  the  parrot-painter  who  has  learned  one 
lesson  from  the  page  of  nature,  and  keeps  stammering  it  out 
with  eternal  repetition  without  turning  the  leaf  ?  Is  it  less 
tautology  to  describe  a  thing  over  and  over  again  with  lines, 
than  it  is  with  words  ?  The  teaching  of  nature  is  as  varied 
and  infinite  as  it  is  constant ;  and  the  duty  of  the  painter  is 
to  watch  for  every  one  of  her  lessons,  and  to  give  (for  human 
life  will  admit  of  nothing  more)  those  in  which  she  has  mani- 
fested each  of  her  principles  in  the  most  peculiar  and  strik- 
ing way.  The  deeper  his  research  and  the  rarer  the  phenom- 
ena he  has  noted,  the  more  valuable  will  his  works  be ;  to 
repeat  himself,  even  in  a  single  instance,  is  treachery  to  nat- 
ure, for  a  thousand  human  lives  would  not  be  enough  to  give 
one  instance  of  the  perfect  manifestation  of  each  of  her  pow- 
ers ;  and  as  for  combining  or  classifying  them,  as  well  might 
a  preacher  expect  in  one  sermon  to  express  and  explain  every 
divine  truth  which  can  be  gathered  out  of  God's  revelation, 
as  a  painter  expect  in  one  composition  to  express  and  illus- 
§5.  The  duty  of  trate  every  lesson  which  can  be  received  from 
Sm^lf  thiVof  God's  creation.  Both  are  commentators  on  in- 
a  preacher.  finity,  and  the  duty  of  both  is  to  take  for  each 
discourse  one  essential  truth,  seeking  particularly  and  insist- 
ing especially  on  those  which  are  less  palpable  to  ordinary 
observation,  and  more  likely  to  escape  an  iridolent  research  ; 
and  to  impress  that,  and  that  alone,  upon  .those  whom  they 
address,  with  every  illustration  that  can  be  furnished  by  their 
knowledge,  and  every  adornment  attainable  by  their  power. 
And  the  real  truthfulness  of  the  painter  is  in  proportion  to 
the  number  and  variety  of  the  facts  he  has  so  illustrated  ; 
those  facts  being  always,  as  above  observed,  the  realization, 
not  the  violation  of  a  general  principle.    The  quantity  of 


132 


OF  THE  RELATIVE 


truth  is  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  such  facts,  and  its 
value  and  instructiveness  in  proportion  to  their  rarity.  All 
really  great  pictures,  therefore,  exhibit  the  general  habits  of 
nature,  manifested  in  some  peculiar,  rare,  and  beautiful  way. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF  THE  RELATIVE  IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS  :— THIRDLY,  i 
THAT  TRUTHS  OF  COLOR  ARE  THE  LEAST  IMPORTANT 
OF  ALL  TRUTHS. 

In  the  two  last  chapters,  we  have  pointed  out  general  tests 
of  the  importance  of  all  truths,  which  will  be  sufficient  at 
§  1.  Difference  oncc  to  distinguish  Certain  classes  of  properties 
andTe'condary^^  bodics,  as  more  neccssary  to  be  told  than 
qualities  in  bodies,  others,  bccausc  morc  characteristic,  either  of  the 
particular  thing  to  be  represented,  or  of  the  principles  of 
nature. 

According  to  Locke,  Book  ii.  chap.  8,  there  are  three  sorts 
of  qualities  in  bodies  :  first,  the  "  bulk,  figure,  number,  situa- 
tion, and  inotion  or  rest  of  their  solid  parts  :  those  that  are 
in  them,  whether  we  perceive  them  or  not."  These  he  calls 
primary  qualities.  Secondly,  "the  power  that  is  in  any  body 
to  operate  after  a  peculiar  manner  on  any  of  our  senses,"  (sen- 
sible qualities.)  And  thirdly,  "  the  power  that  is  any  body 
to  make  such  a  change  in  another  body  as  that  it  shall  oper- 
ate on  our  senses  differently  from  what  it  did  before  :  these 
last  being  usually  called  powers^ 

Hence  he  proceeds  to  prove  that  those  which  he  calls  prim- 
ary qualities  are  indeed  part  of  the  essence  of  the  body,  and 
characteristic  of  it;  but  that  the  two  other  kinds  of  qualities 
which  together  he  calls  secondary,  are  neither  of  them  more 
than  powers  of  producing  on  other  objects,  or  in  us,  certain 
§  2.  The  first  are  effects  and  scnsations.  Now  a  power  of  influ- 
iS;ic^  the^Rccond  ^^^^  always  equally  characteristic  of  two  ob- 
imperfectiy  so.  jects — the  activc  and  passive;  for  it  is  as  much 
necessary  that  there  should  be  a  power  in  the  object  suffer- 


IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS, 


133 


ing  to  receive  the  impression,  as  in  the  object  acting  to  give 
the  impression.  (Compare  Locke,  Book  ii.  chap.  21,  sect.  2.) 
For  supposing  two  people,  as  is  frequently  the  case,  perceive 
different  scents  in  the  same  flower,  it  is  evident  that  the 
power  in  the  flower  to  give  this  or  that  depends  on  the  nat- 
ure of  their  nerves,  as  well  as  on  that  of  its  own  particles  ; 
and  that  we  are  as  correct  in  saying  it  is  a  power  in  us  to 
perceive,  as  in  the  object  to  impress.  Every  power,  there- 
fore, being  characteristic  of  the  nature  of  two  bodies,  is 
imperfectly  and  incompletely  characteristic  of  either  sepa- 
rately ;  but  the  primary  qualities,  being  characteristic  only 
of  the  body  in  which  they  are  inherent,  are  the  most  impor- 
tant truths  connected  with  it.  For  the  question,  what  the 
thing  must  precede,  and  be  of  more  importance  than  the 
question,  what  can  it  do. 

Now,  by  Locke's  definition  above  2^iven,  only 

§  3.    Color  is  a    ,  '  .         .  ^  .      ^  ^ 

secondary  qual-  bulk,  figure.  Situation,  and  motion  or  rest  of 

ity,  therefore  less  ^  .  .  ^  .  -^t  n 

important  than  solid  parts,  are  primary  qualities,    lience  all 
truths  of  color  sink  at  once  into  the  second  rank. 
He,  therefore,  who  has  neglected  a  truth  of  form  for  a  truth 
of  color,  has  neglected  a  greater  truth  for  a  less  one. 

And  that  color  is  indeed  a  most  unimportant  characteristic 
of  objects,  will  be  farther  evident  on  the  slightest  consider- 
ation. The  color  of  plants  is  constantly  changing  with  the 
season,  and  of  everything  with  the  quality  of  light  falling  on 
it  ;  but  the  nature  and  essence  of  the  thing  are  independent 
of  these  changes.  An  oak  is  an  oak,  whether  green  with 
spring  or  red  with  winter  ;  a  dahlia  is  a  dahlia,  whether  it 
be  yellow  or  crimson  ;  and  if  some  monster-hunting  botanist 
should  ever  frighten  the  flower  blue,  still  it  will  be  a  dahlia  ; 
but  let  one  curve  of  the  petals — one  groove  of  the  stamens 
be  wanting,  and  the  flower  ceases  to  be  the  same.  Let  the 
roughness  of  the  bark  and  the  angles  of  the  boughs  be 
smoothed  or  diminished,  and  the  oak  ceases  to  be  an  oak  ; 
but  let  it  retain  its  inward  structure  and  outward  form,  and 
though  its  leaves  grew  white,  or  pink,  or  blue,  or  tri-color,  it 
would  be  a  white  oak,  or  a  pink  oak,  or  a  republican  oak,  but 
an  oak  still.    Again,  color  is  hardly  ever  even  di,  possible  dis- 


134 


OF  THE  RELATIVE 


tinction  between  two  objects  of  the  same  species.  Two 
trees,  of  the  same  kind,  at  the  same  season,  and  of  the  same 
age,  are  of  absolutely  the  same  color  ;  but  they  are  not  of 
§  4.  Color  no  dis-  the  Same  form,  nor  anything  like  it.  There  can 
obTect?  ofTe  be  no  difference  in  the  color  of  two  pieces  of 
same  species.  pock  broken  from  the  same  place  ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible they  should  be  of  the  same  form.  So  that  form  is 
not  only  the  chief  characteristic  of  species,  but  the  only 
characteristic  of  individuals  of  a  species. 

§5.  And  different  Again,  a  color,  in  association  with  other 
in  association      colors,  is  different  from  the  same  color  seen  by 

from  what  it  is  '  ^     ^  ^  J 

aloiie.  itself.    It  has  a  distinct  and  peculiar  power 

upon  the  retina  dependent  on  its  association.  Consequently, 
the  color  of  any  object  is  not  more  dependent  upon  the 
nature  of  the  object  itself,  and  the  eye  beholding  it,  than  on 
the  color  of  the  objects  near  it  ;  in  this  respect  also,  there 
fore,  it  is  no  characteristic. 

§  6  It  is  not  And  so  great  is  the  uncertainty  with  respect 
certain  whether  to  those  qualities  or  powcrs  which  depend  as 
see  the  same  much  on  the  nature  of  the  object  suffering  as  of 
colors  m  things.  object  acting,  that  it  is  totally  impossible  to 
prove  that  one  man  sees  in  the  same  thing  the  same  color 
that  another  does  though  he  may  use  the  same  name  for  it. 
One  man  may  see  yellow  where  another  sees  blue,  but  as  the 
effect  is  constant,  they  agree  in  the  term  to  be  used  for  it, 
and  both  call  it  blue,  or  both  yellow,  having  yet  totally  dif- 
ferent ideas  attached  to  the  term.  And  yet  neither  can  be 
said  to  see  falsely,  because  the  color  is  not  in  the  thing,  but 
in  the  thing  and  them  together.  But  if  they  see  forms  dif- 
ferently, one  must  see  falsely,  because  the  form  is  positive  in 
the  object.  My  friend  may  see  boars  blue  for  anything  I 
know,  but  it  is  impossible  he  should  see  them  with  paws  in- 
stead of  hoofs,  unless  his  eyes  or  brain  are  diseased.  (Com- 
pare Locke,  Book  ii.  chap,  xxxii.  §  15.)  But  I  do  not  speak 
of  this  uncertainty  as  capable  of  having  any  effect  on  art, 
because,  though  perhaps  Landseer  sees  dogs  of  the  color 
which  I  should  call  blue,  yet  the  color  he  puts  on  the  canvas, 
being  in  the  same  way  blue  to  him,  will  still  be  brown  or 


IMPORTANCE  OF  TRUTHS, 


135 


dog-color  to  me  ;  and  so  we  may  argue  on  points  of  color 
just  as  if  all  men  saw  alike,  as  indeed  in  all  probability  they 
do  ;  but  I  merely  mention  this  uncertainty  to  show  farther 
the  vagueness  and  unimportance  of  color  as  a  characteristic 
of  bodies. 

„  ^  ^  Before  sroinar  farther,  however,  I  must  explain 

§  7.  Form,  con-  .        ^.  ' 

Bidered  as  an  the  seusc  in  which  I  have  used  the  word  ^'  form," 

element  of  land-   ,  .  , 

scape,  includes  bccause  paiutcrs  have  a  most  inaccurate  and  * 
light  and  shade.  ^g^j,^j^gg  Ji^j^it  of  Confining  the  term  to  the  out- 
line  of  bodies,  whereas  it  necessarily  implies  light  and  shade. 
It  is  true  that  the  outline  and  the  chiaroscuro  must  be 
separate  subjects  of  investigation  with  the  student  ;  but  no 
form  whatsoever  can  be  known  to  the  eye  in  the  slightest 
degree  without  its  chiaroscuro  ;  and,  therefore,  in  speaking 
of  form  generally  as  an  element  of  landscape,  I  mean  that 
perfect  and  harmonious  unity  of  outline  with  light  and 
shade,  by  which  all  the  parts  and  projections  and  propor- 
tions of  a  body  are  fully  explained  to  the  eye,  being  never- 
theless perfectly  independent  of  sight  or  power  in  other  ob- 
jects, the  presence  of  light  upon  a  body  being  a  positive 
existence,  whether  we  are  aware  of  it  or  not,  and  in  no  de- 
gree dependent  upon  our  senses.  This  being  understood, 
§  8.  Importance  the  most  Convincing  proof  of  the  unimportance 
inexpmsshig^fhe^  of  color  Hcs  in  the  accurate  observation  of  the 
ii^s^'^a^nd^^unim-  which  any  material  object  impresses  it- 

portance  of  color,  self  on  the  mind.  If  we  look  at  nature  care- 
fully, we  shall  find  that  her  colors  are  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
confusion  and  indistinctness,  while  her  forms,  as  told  by 
light  and  shade,  are  invariably  clear,  distinct,  and  speaking. 
The  stones  and  gravel  of  the  bank  catch  green  reflections 
from  the  boughs  above  ;  the  bushes  receive  grays  and  yel- 
lows from  the  ground  ;  every  hairbreadth  of  polished  surface 
gives  a  little  bit  of  the  blue  of  the  sky  or  the  gold  of  the 
sun,  like  a  star  upon  the  local  color  ;  this  local  color,  change- 
ful and  uncertain  in  itself,  is  again  disguised  and  modified 
by  the  hue  of  the  light,  or  quenched  in  the  gray  of  the 
shadow  ;  and  the  confusion  and  blending  of  tint  is  altogether 
so  great,  that  were  we  left  to  find  out  what  objects  were  by 


136 


BEGAPITULA  TION. 


their  colors  only,  we  would  scarcely  in  places  distinguish  the 
boughs  of  a  tree  from  the  air  beyond  them,  or  the  ground 
beneath  them.  I  know  that  people  unpractised  in  art  will 
not  believe  this  at  first  ;  but  if  they  have  accurate  powers  of 
observation,  they  may  soon  ascertain  it  for  themselves  ;  they 
will  find  that,  while  they  can  scarcely  ever  determine  the 
exact  hue  of  anything,  except  when  it  occurs  in  large  masses, 
as  in  a  green  field  or  the  blue  sky,  the  form,  as  told  by  light 
and  shade,  is  always  decided  and  evident,  and  the  source  of 
the  chief  character  of  every  object.  Light  and  shade  indeed 
so  completely  conquer  the  distinctions  of  local  color,  that  the 
difference  in  hue  between  the  illumined  parts  of  a  white  and 
black  object  is  not  so  great  as  the  difference  (in  sunshine) 
between  the  illumined  and  dark  side  of  either  separately. 

W e  shall  see  hereafter,  in  considering  ideas  of  bea-uty,  that 
color,  even  as  a  source  of  pleasure,  is  feeble  compared  to 
§  9.  Recapituia-  fo^m  ;  but  this  we  cannot  insist  upon  at  pres- 
ent ;  we  have  only  to  do  with  simple  truth,  and 
the  observations  we  have  made  are  sufficient  to  prove  that 
the  artist  who  sacrifices  or  forgets  a  truth  of  form  in  the 
pursuit  of  a  truth  of  color,  sacrifices  what  is  definite  to  what 
is  uncertain,  and  what  is  essential  to  what  is  accidental. 


CHAPTER  VL 

RECAPITULATION. 

It  ought  farther  to  be  observed  respecting  truths  in  gen- 
eral, that  those  are  always  most  valuable  which  are  most  his- 
torical, that  is,  which  tell  us  most  about  the  past 

§1.  The  impor-  '  '  /.     i        i  . 

tance  of  histori-  and  future  states  of  the  obiect  to  which  they 

cal  truths  ... 

belong.  In  a  tree,  for  instance,  it  is  more  impor- 
tant to  give  the  appearance  of  energy  and  elasticity  in  the  limbs 
which  is  indicative  of  growth  and  life,  than  any  particular 
character  of  leaf,  or  texture  of  bough.  It  is  more  important 
that  we  should  feel  that  the  uppermost  sprays  are  creeping 
higher  and  higher  into  the  sky,  and  be  impressed  with  the 


RECAPITULA  TION. 


137 


current  of  life  and  motion  which  is  animating  every  fibre, 
than  that  we  should  know  the  exact  pitch  of  relief  with 
which  those  fibres  are  thrown  out  against  the  sky.  For  the 
first  truths  tell  us  tales  about  the  tree,  about  what  it  has 
been,  and  will  be,  while  the  last  are  characteristic  of  it  only 
in  its  present  state,  and  are  in  no  way  talkative  about  them- 
selves. Talkative  facts  are  always  more  interesting  and  more 
important  than  silent  ones.  So  again  the  lines  in  a  crag 
which  mark  its  stratification,  and  how  it  has  been  washed 
and  rounded  by  water,  or  twisted  and  drawn  out  in  fire,  are 
more  important,  because  they  tell  more  than  the  stains  of 
the  lichens  which  change  year  by  year,  and  the  accidental 
fissures  of  frost  or  decomposition  ;  not  but  that  both  of  these 
are  historical,  but  historical  in  a  less  distinct  manner,  and 
for  shorter  periods. 

§  2  Form  as  Hence  in  general  the  truths  of  specific  form 
explained   by  are  the  first  and  most  important  of  all  ;  and 

ight  and  shade,  ^        o    ^  >  i  •  i 

the  first  of  all  next  to  them,  those  truths  of  chiaroscuro  which 

truths.    Tone,  ,  ^  ^ 

ight  and  color  are  ncccssary  to  make  us  understand  every 
are  secondary.  quality  and  part  of  forms,  and  the  relative  dis- 
tances of  objects  among  each  other,  and  in  consequence  their 
relative  bulks.  Altogether  lower  than  these,  as  truths, 
though  often  most  important  as  beauties,  stand  all  effects  of 
chiaroscuro  which  are  productive  merely  of  imitations  of 
light  and  tone,  and  all  effects  of  color.  To  make  us  under- 
stand the  space  of  the  sky,  is  an  end  worthy  of  the  artist's 
highest  powers  ;  to  hit  its  particular  blue  or  gold  is  an  end 
to  be  thought  of  when  we  have  accomplished  the  first,  and 
not  till  then. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  Finally,  far  below  all  these  come  those  par- 

tive  chiaroscuro  ticular  accuracies  or  tricks  of  chiaroscuro  which 
e  owestof  au.  ^^^^g^  objects  to  look  projecting  from  the  can- 
vas, not  worthy  of  the  name  of  truths,  because  they  require 
for  their  attainment  the  sacrifice  of  all  others  ;  for  not  hav- 
ing at  our  disposal  the  same  intensity  of  light  by  which 
nature  illustrates  her  objects,  we  are  obliged,  if  we  would 
have  perfect  deception  in  one,  to  destroy  its  relation  to  the 
rest.    (Compare  Sect.  II.  chap.  V.)    And  thus  he  who 


138 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


throws  one  object  out  of  his  picture,  never  lets  the  specta- 
tor into  it.  Michael  Angelo  bids  you  follow  his  phantoms 
into  the  abyss  of  heaven,  but  a  modern  French  painter  drops 
his  hero  out  of  the  picture  frame. 

This  solidity  or  projection  then,  is  the  very  lowest  truth 
that  art  can  give  ;  it  is  the  painting  of  mere  matter,  giving 
that  as  food  for  the  eye  which  is  properly  only  the  subject 
of  touch  ;  it  can  neither  instruct  nor  exalt,  nor  please  ex- 
cept as  jugglery  ;  it  addresses  no  sense  of  beauty  nor  of 
power  ;  and  wherever  it  characterizes  the  general  aim  of  a 
picture,  it  is  the  sign  and  the  evidence  of  the  vilest  and  low- 
est mechanism  which  art  can  be  insulted  by  giving  name  to. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES. 

We  have  seen,  in  the  preceding  chapters,  some  proof  of 
what  was  before  asserted,  that  the  truths  necessary  for  de- 
§  1.  The  differ-  ccptive  imitation  are  not  only  few,  but  of  the 
facts^consequent  ^cry  lowcst  Order.  We  thus  find  painters 
on  the  several  ransrinsr  themselves  into  two  sfreat  classes  ;  one 

aims    at   imita-      .     .  ,  . 

tion  or  at  truth,  aiming  at  the  development  of  the  exquisite 
truths  of  specific  form,  refined  color,  and  ethereal  space, 
and  content  with  the  clear  and  impressive  suggestion 
of  any  of  these,  by  whatsoever  means  obtained  ;  and  the 
other  casting  all  these  aside,  to  attain  those  particular 
truths  of  tone  and  chiaroscuro,  which  may  trick  the  specta- 
tor into  a  belief  of  reality.  The  first  class,  if  they  have  to 
paint  a  tree,  are  intent  upon  giving  the  exquisite  designs  of 
intersecting  undulation  in  its  boughs,  the  grace  of  its  leaf- 
age, the  intricacy  of  its  organization,  and  all  those  qualities 
which  make  it  lovely  or  affecting  of  its  kind.  The  second 
endeavor  only  to  make  you  believe  that  you  are  looking  at 
wood.  They  are  totally  regardless  of  truths  or  beauties  of 
form  ;  a  stump  is  as  good  as  a  trunk  for  all  their  purposes, 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLE 8. 


139 


so  that  they  can  only  deceive  the  eye  into  the  supposition 
that  it  is  a  stump  and  not  canvas. 

§  2.  The  old  mas-  To  which  of  these  classes  the  great  body  of 
aim  onVat^im^  ^^^^  landscape  painters  belonged,  may  be 
tation.  partly  gathered  'from  the  kind  of  praise  which 

is  bestowed  upon  them  by  "those  who  admire  them  most, 
which  either  refers  to  technical  matters,  dexterity  of  touch, 
clever  oppositions  of  color,  etc.,  or  is  bestowed  on  the  power 
of  the  painter  to  deceive,  M.  de  Marmontel,  going  into  a 
connoisseur's  gallery,  pretends  to  mistake  a  fine  Berghem 
for  a  window.  This,  he  says,  was  affirmed  by  its  possessor 
to  be  the  greatest  praise  the  picture  had  ever  received. 
Such  is  indeed  the  notion  of  art  which  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  veneration  usually  felt  for  the  old  landscape  painters  ;  it 
is  of  course  the  palpable,  first  idea  of  ignorance  ;  it  is  the 
only  notion  which  people  unacquainted  with  art  can  by  any 
possibility  have  of  its  ends  ;  the  only  test  by  which  people 
unacquainted  with  nature  can  pretend  to  form  anything  like 
judgment  of  art.  It  is  strange  that,  with  the  great  histor- 
ical painters  of  Italy  before  them,  who  had  broken  so  boldly 
and  indignantly  from  the  trammels  of  this  notion,  and  shaken 
the  very  dust  of  it  from  their  feet,  the  succeeding  landscape 
painters  should  have  wasted  their  lives  in  jugglery  :  but  so 
it  is,  and  so  it  will  be  felt,  the  more  we  look  into  their  works, 
§  3  What  truths  ^^^^  deception  of  the  senses  was  the  great 
they  gave.  and  first  end  of  all  their  art.  To  attain  this 
they  paid  deep  and  serious  attention  to  effects  of  light  and 
tone,  and  to  the  exact  degree  of  relief  which  material  objects 
take  against  light  and  atmosphere  ;  and  sacrificing  every 
other  truth  to  these,  not  necessarily,  but  because  they  re- 
quired no  others  for  deception,  they  succeeded  in  rendering 
these  particular  facts  with  a  fidelity  and  force  which,  in 
the  pictures  that  have  come  down  to  us  uninjured,  are  as 
yet  unequalled,  and  never  can  be  surpassed.  They  painted 
their  foregrounds  with  laborious  industry,  covering  them 
with  details  so  as  to  render  them  deceptive  to  the  ordinary 
eye,  regardless  of  beauty  or  truth  in  the  details  themselves  ; 
they  painted  their  trees  with  careful  attention  to  their  pitch 


140 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


of  shade  against  the  sky,  utterly  regardless  of  all  that  is 
beautiful  or  essential  in  the  anatomy  of  their  foliage  and 
boughs  :  they  painted  their  distances  with  exquisite  use  of 
transparent  color  and  aerial  tone,  totally  neglectful  of  all 
facts  and  forms  which  nature  uses  such  color  and  tone  to 
relieve  and  adorn.  They  had  neither  love  of  nature,  nor 
feeling  of  her  beauty  ;  they  looked  for  her  coldest  and  most 
commonplace  effects,  because  they  were  easiest  to  imitate  ; 
and  for  her  most  vulgar  forms,  because  they  were  most 
easily  to  be  recognized  by  the  untaught  eyes  of  those  whom 
alone  they  could  hope  to  please  ;  they  did  it,  like  the  Phari- 
see of  old,  to  be  seen  of  men,  and  they  had  their  reward. 
They  do  deceive  and  delight  the  unpractised  eye  ;  they  will 
to  all  ages,  as  long  as  their  colors  endure,  be  the  stand- 
ards of  excellence  with  all,  who,  ignorant  of  nature,  claim 
to  be  thought  learned  in  art.  And  they  will  to  all  ages 
be,  to  those  who  have  thorough  love  and  knowledge  of  the 
creation  which  they  libel,  instructive  proofs  of  the  limit- 
ed number  and  low  character  of  the  truths  which  are  neces- 
sary, and  the  accumulated  multitude  of  pure,  broad,  bold 
falsehoods  which  are  admissible  in  pictures  meant  only  to 
deceive. 

There  is  of  course  more  or  less  accuracy  of  knowledge  and 
execution  combined  with  this  aim  at  effect,  according  to  the 
industry  and  precision  of  eye  possessed  by  the  master,  and 
more  or  less  of  beauty  in  the  forms  selected,  according  to  his 
natural  taste  ;  but  both  the  beauty  and  truth  are  sacrificed 
unhesitatingly  where  they  interfere  with  the  great  effort  at 
deception.  Claude  had,  if  it  had  been  cultivated,  a  fine  feel- 
ing for  beauty  of  form,  and  is  seldom  ungraceful  in  his  foli- 
age ;  but  his  picture,  when  examined  with  reference  to  essen- 
tial truth,  is  one  mass  of  error  from  beginning  to  end.  Cuyp, 
on  the  other  hand,  could  paint  close  truth  of  everything, 
except  ground  and  water,  with  decision  and  success,  but  he 
has  no  sense  of  beauty.  Gaspar  Poussin,  more  ignorant  of 
truth  than  Claude,  and  almost  as  dead  to  beauty  as  Cuyp, 
has  yet  a  perception  of  the  feeling  and  moral  truth  of  nature 
which  often  redeems  the  picture  ;  but  yet  in  all  of  them, 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES, 


141 


everything  that  they  can  do  is  done  for  deception,  and  noth- 
ing for  the  sake  or  love  of  what  they  are  painting. 
§4  The  princi-  Modern  landscape  painters  have  looked  at 
adopted  by ""So^^^  nature  with  totally  different  eyes,  seeking  not 
ern  artists.  f qj.  what  is  easicst  to  imitate,  but  for  what  is 
most  important  to  tell.  Rejecting  at  once  all  ideal  of  boiia 
fide  imitation,  they  think  only  of  conveying  the  impression 
of  nature  into  the  mind  of  the  spectator.  And  there  is,  in 
consequence,  a  greater  sum  of  valuable,  essential,  and  im- 
pressive truth  in  the  works  of  two  or  three  of  our  leading 
modern  landscape  painters,  than  in  those  of  all  the  old 
masters  put  together,  and  of  truth  too,  nearly  unmixed  with 
definite  or  avoidable  falsehood  ;  while  the  unimportant  and 
feeble  truths  of  the  old  masters  are  choked  with  a  mass  of 
perpetual  defiance  of  the  most  authoritative  laws  of  nature. 

I  do  not  expect  this  assertion  to  be  believed  at  present  ;  it 
must  rest  for  demonstration  on  the  examination  we  are  about 
to  enter  upon  ;  yet,  even  without  reference  to  any  intricate 
or  deep-laid  truths,  it  appears  strange  to  me,  that  any  one 
familiar  with  nature,  and  fond  of  her,  should  not  grow  weary 
and  sick  at  heart  among  the  melancholy  and  monotonous 
§  5.  General  feel-  transcripts  of  her  which  alone  can  be  received 
Sa1vator,^nd1i'.  froiTi  the  old  school  of  art.  A  man  accustomed 
t^rasted\ithX  to  the  broad,  wild  sea-shore,  with  its  bright 
freedom     and  breakers,  and  free  winds,  and  soundino;  rocks, 

vastness  of  na-  '  ^  ^  o  > 

t^J^e.  and    eternal  sensation  of  tameless  power,  can 

scarcely  but  be  angered  when  Claude  bids  him  stand  still  on 
some  paltry,  chipped  and  chiselled  quay  with  porters  and 
wheelbarrows  running  against  him,  to  watch  a  weak,  rippling 
bound  and  barriered  water,  that  has  not  strength  enough  in 
one  of  its  waves  to  upset  the  flower-pots  on  the  wall,  or  even  to 
fling  one  jet  of  spray  over  the  confining  stone.  A  man  ac- 
customed to  the  strength  and  glory  of  God's  mountains, 
with  their  soaring  and  radiant  pinnacles,  and  surging  sweeps 
of  measureless  distance,  kingdoms  in  their  valleys,  and  cli- 
mates upon  their  crests,  can  scarcely  but  be  angered  when 
Salvator  bids  him  stand  still  under  some  contemptible  frag- 
ment of  splintery  crag,  which  an  Alpine  snow-wreath  would 


142 


GENEHAL  APPLICATION  OF 


smother  in  its  first  swell,  with  a  stunted  bush  or  two  grow- 
ing out  of  it,  and  a  volume  of  manufactory  smoke  for  a  sky. 
A  man  accustomed  to  the  grace  and  infinity  of  nature's 
foliage,  with  every  vista  a  cathedral,  and  every  bough  a  rev- 
elation, can  scarcely  but  be  angered  when  Poussin  mocks 
him  with  a  black  round  mass  of  impenetrable  paint,  diverg- 
ing into  feathers  instead  of  leaves,  and  supported  on  a  stick 
instead  of  a  trunk.  The  fact  is,  there  is  one  thing  wanting 
in  all  the  doing  of  these  men,  and  that  is  the  very  virtue  by 
which  the  work  of  human  mind  chiefly  rises  above  that  of 
the  Daguerreotype  or  Calotype,  or  any  other  mechanical 
means  that  ever  have  been  or  may  be  invented.  Love  :  There 
is  no  evidence  of  their  ever  having  gone  to  nature  with  any 
thirst,  or  received  from  her  such  emotion  as  could  make 
them,  even  for  an  instant,  lose  sight  of  themselves  ;  there 
is  in  them  neither  earnestness  nor  humility  ;  there  is  no  sim- 
ple or  honest  record  of  any  single  truth  ;  none  of  the  plain 
words  nor  straight  efforts  that  men  speak  and  make  when 
they  once  feel. 

Nor  is  it  only  by  the  professed  landscape  painters  that  the 
great  verities  of  the  material  world  are  betrayed  :  Grand  as 
are  the  motives  of  landscape  in  the  works  of  the  earlier  and 
mightier  men,  there  is  yet  in  them  nothing  approaching  to 
§6.  Inadequacy  ^  general  view  nor  complete  rendering  of  nat- 
^\  ^^M,  l^^^^^^^S  ural  phenomena  :  not  that  they  are  to  be  blamed 

of    Titian   and  ^  ^  ' 

Tintoret.  for  this  ;  for  they  took  out  of  nature  that  which 

was  fit  for  their  purpose,  and  their  mission  was  to  do  no 
more  ;  but  we  must  be  cautious  to  distinguish  that  imagin- 
ative abstraction  of  landscape  which  alone  we  find  in  them, 
from  the  entire  statement  of  truth  which  has  been  attempted 
by  the  moderns.  I  have  said  in  the  chapter  on  symmetry  in 
the  second  volume,  that  all  landscape  grandeur  vanishes 
before  that  of  Titian  and  Tintoret  ;  and  this  is  true  of  what- 
ever these  two  giants  touched  ; — but  they  touched  little.  A 
few  level  flakes  of  chestnut  foliage  ;  a  blue  abstraction  of 
hill  forms  from  Cadore  or  the  Euganeans  ;  a  grand  mass  or 
two  of  glowing  ground  and  mighty  herbage,  and  a  few  burn- 
ing fields  of  quiet  cloud  were  all  they  needed  ;  there  is  evi- 


THE  FOBEGOING  PBINCIPLES,  143 


dence  of  Tintoret's  having  felt  more  than  this,  but  it  occurs 
only  in  secondary  fragments  of  rock,  cloud,  or  pine,  hardly 
noticed  amono:  the  accumulated  interest  of  his  human  sub- 
ject.  From  the  window  of  Titian's  house  at  Venice,  the 
chain  of  the  Tyrolese  Alps  is  seen  lifted  in  spectral  power 
above  the  tufted  plain  of  Treviso  ;  every  dawn  that  reddens 
the  towers  of  Murano  lights  also  a  line  of  pyramidal  fires 
along  that  colossal  ridge  ;  but  there  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  no 
evidence  in  any  of  the  master's  works  of  his  ever  having 
beheld,  much  less  felt,  the  majesty  of  their  burning.  The 
dark  firmament  and  saddened  twilight  of  Tintoret  are  suffi- 
cient for  their  end  ;  but  the  sun  never  plunges  behind  San 
Giorgio  in  Aliga  without  such  retinue  of  radiant  cloud,  such 
rest  of  zoned  light  on  the  green  lagoon,  as  never  received 
image  from  his  hand.  More  than  this,  of  that  which  they 
loved  and  rendered  much  is  rendered  conventionally  ;  by 
noble  conventionalities  indeed,  but  such  nevertheless  as 
would  be  inexcusable  if  the  landscape  became  the  principal 
subject  instead  of  an  accompaniment.  I  will  instance  only 
the  San  Pietro  Martire,  which,  if  not  the  most  perfect,  is  at 
least  the  most  popular  of  Titian's  landscapes  ;  in  which,  to 
obtain  light  on  the  flesh  of  the  near  figures  the  sky  is  made 
as  dark  as  deep  sea,  the  mountains  are  laid  in  with  violent 
and  impossible  blue,  except  one  of  them  on  the  left,  which, 
to  connect  the  distant  lio^ht  with  the  foreo^round,  is  thrown 
into  light  relief,  unexplained  by  its  materials,  unlikely  in  its 
position,  and  in  its  degree  impossible  under  any  circum- 
stances. 

§  7.  Causes  of  its      ^  instance  these  as  faults  in  the  pict- 

on"*  subsequent  *  there  are  no  works  of  very  powerful  color 
schools.  which  are  free  from  conventionality  concentrated 

or  diffused,  daring  or  disguised  ;  but  as  the  conventionality 
of  this  whole  picture  is  mainly  thrown  into  the  landscape,  it 
is  necessary,  while  we  acknowledge  the  virtue  of  this  dis- 
tance as  a  part  of  the  great  composition,  to  be  on  our  guard 
against  the  license  it  assumes  and  the  attractiveness  of  its 
overcharged  color.  Fragments  of  far  purer  truth  occur  in 
the  works  of  Tintoret  ;  and  in  the  drawing  of  foliage, 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


whether  rapid  or  elaborate,  of  masses  or  details,  the  Vene- 
tian painters,  taken  as  a  body,  may  be  considered  almost 
faultless  models.  But  the  whole  field  of  what  they  have 
done  is  so  narrow,  and  therein  is  so  much  of  what  is  only 
relatively  right,  and  in  itself  false  or  imperfect,  that  the 
young  and  inexperienced  painter  could  run  no  greater  risk 
than  the  too  early  taking  them  for  teachers ;  and  to  the  gen- 
eral spectator  their  landscape  is  valuable  rather  as  a  means 
of  peculiar  and  solemn  emotion  than  as  ministering  to,  or 
inspiring  the  universal  love  of  nature.  Hence  while  men  of 
serious  mind,  especially  those  whose  pursuits  have  brought 
them  into  continued  relations  with  the  peopled  rather  than 
the  lonely  world,  will  always  look  to  the  Venetian  painters 
as  having  touched  those  simple  chords  of  landscape  harmony 
which  are  most  in  unison  with  earnest  and  melancholy  feel- 
ing ;  those  whose  philosophy  is  more  cheerful  and  more  ex- 
tended, as  having  been  trained  and  colored  among  simple 
and  solitary  nature,  will  seek  for  a  wider  and  more  system- 
atic circle  of  teaching  :  they  may  grant  that  the  barred  hori- 
zontal gloom  of  the  Titian  sky,  and  the  massy  leaves  of  the 
Titian  forest  are  among  the  most  sublime  of  the  conceivable 
forms  of  material  things  ;  but  they  know  that  the  virtue  of 
these  very  forms  is  to  be  learned  only  by  right  comparison  of 
them  with  the  cheerfulness,  fulness  and  comparative  inquiet- 
ness  of  other  hours  and  scenes  ;  that  they  are  not  intended 
for  the  continual  food,  but  the  occasional  soothing  of  the 
human  heart  ;  that  there  is  a  lesson  of  not  less  value  in  its 
place,  though  of  less  concluding  and  sealing  authority,  in 
every  one  of  the  more  humble  phases  of  material  things  : 
and  that  there  are  some  lessons  of  equal  or  greater  authority 
which  these  masters  neither  taught  nor  received.  And  until 
the  school  of  modern  landscape  arose  Art  had  never  noted 
the  links  of  this  mighty  chain  ;  it  mattered  not  that  a  frag- 
ment lay  here  and  there,  no  heavenly  lightning  could  descend 
by  it  ;  the  landscape  of  the  Venetians  was  without  effect  on 
any  contemporary  in  subsequent  schools  ;  it  still  remains  on 
the  continent  as  useless  as  if  it  had  never  existed  ;  and  at 
this  moment  German  and  Italian  landscapes,  of  which  no 


TEE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES. 


145 


words  are  scornful  enough  to  befit  the  utter  degradation, 
hang  in  the  Venetian  Academy  in  the  next  room  to  the 
Desert  of  Titian  and  the  Paradise  of  Tintoret."^ 
§8.  Thevaiueof  That  then  which  I  would  have  the  reader  in- 
a^tTowtcTbe^^  quire  respecting  every  work  of  art  of  undeter- 
timated.  mined  merit  submitted  to  his  judgment,  is  not 

whether  it  be  a  work  of  especial  grandeur,  importance,  or 
power  ;  but  whether  it  have  any  virtue  or  substance  as  a 
link  in  this  chain  of  truth,  whether  it  have  recorded  or  in- 
terpreted anything  before  unknown,  whether  it  have  added 
one  single  stone  to  our  heaven-pointing  pyramid,  cut  away 
one  dark  bough,  or  levelled  one  rugged  hillock  in  our  path. 
This,  if  it  be  an  honest  work  of  art,  it  must  have  done,  for 
no  man  ever  yet  worked  honestly  without  giving  some  such 
help  to  his  race.  God  appoints  to  every  one  of  his  creatures 
a  separate  mission,  and  if  they  discharge  it  honorably,  if  they 
quit  themselves  like  men  and  faithfully  follow  that  light 
which  is  in  them,  withdrawing  from  it  all  cold  and  quench- 
ing influence,  there  will  assuredly  come  of  it  such  burning 
as,  in  its  appointed  mode  and  measure,  shall  shine  before 
men,  and  be  of  service  constant  and  holy.  Degrees  infinite 
of  lustre  there  must  always  be,  but  the  weakest  among  us 
has  a  gift,  however  seemingly  trivial,  which  is  peculiar  to 
him,  and  which  worthily  used  will  be  a  gift  also  to  his  race 
forever — 

"  Fool  not,"  says  George  Herbert, 

For  all  may  have, 
If  they  dare  choose,  a  glorious  life  or  grave." 

If,  on  the  contrary,  there  be  nothing  of  this  freshness 
achieved,  if  there  be  neither  purpose  nor  fidelity  in  what  is 
done,  if  it  be  an  envious  or  powerless  imitation  of  other  men's 

*  Not  the  large  Paradise,  but  the  Fall  of  Adam,  a  small  picture 
chiefly  in  brown  and  gray,  near  Titian's  Assumption.  Its  companion, 
the  Death  of  Abel,  is  remarkable  as  containing-  a  group  of  trees  which 
Turner,  I  believe  accidentally,  has  repeated  nearly  mass  for  mass  in  the 

Marly."    Both  are  among  the  most  noble  works  of  this  or  any  other 
master,  whether  for  preciousness  of  color  or  energy  of  thought. 
Vol.  I.— 10 


146  GENERAL  APPLIGATION  OF 


labors,  if  it  be  a  display  of  mere  manual  dexterity  or  curious 
manufacture,  or  if  in  any  other  mode  it  show  itself  as  having 
its  origin  in  vanity, — Cast  it  out.  It  matters  not  what  pow- 
ers of  mind  may  have  been  concerned  or  corrupted  in  it,  all 
have  lost  their  savor,  it  is  worse  than  worthless  ; — perilous 
— Cast  it  out. 

Works  of  art  are  indeed  always  of  mixed  kind,  their  hon- 
esty being  more  or  less  corrupted  by  the  various  weaknesses 
of  the  painter,  by  his  vanity,  his  idleness,  or  his  cowardice  ; 
(the  fear  of  doing  right  has  far  more  influence  on  art  than  is 
commonJy  thought,)  that  only  is  altogether  to  be  rejected 
which  is  altogether  vain,  idle,  and  cowardly.  Of  the  rest 
the  rank  is  to  be  estimated  rather  by  the  purity  of  their 
metal  than  the  coined  value  of  it. 

§  9  Religious  Keeping  these  principles  in  view,  let  us  en- 
1  and  scape  of  dcavor  to  obtain  some  til  in  o- like  a  s^cueral  vicw  of 

Italy.    The   ad-  .  i  •   ,     ,        ?  t  . 

mirabieness    of  the  assistance  which  has  been  rendered  to  our 

its  completion.        ^    t        /?        ,  i      .  i  •  e 

study  oi  nature  by  the  various  occurrences  oi 
landscape  in  elder  art,  and  by  the  more  exclusively  directed 
labors  of  modern  schools. 

To  the  ideal  landscape  of  the  early  religious  painters  of 
Italy  I  have  alluded  in  the  concluding  chapter  of  the  second 
volume.  It  is  absolutely  right  and  beautiful  in  its  peculiar 
application  ;  but  its  grasp  of  nature  is  narrow  and  its  treat- 
ment in  most  respects  too  severe  and  conventional  to  form 
a  profitable  example  when  the  landscape  is  to  be  alone  the 
subject  of  thought.  The  great  virtue  of  it  is  its  entire,  ex- 
quisite, and  humble  realization  of  those  objects  it  selects  ;  in 
this  respect  differing  from  such  German  imitations  of  it  as  I 
have  met  with,  that  there  is  no  effort  of  any  fanciful  or  orna- 
mental modifications,  but  loving  fidelity  to  the  thing  studied. 
The  foreground  plants  are  usually  neither  exaggerated  nor 
stiffened  ;  they  do  not  form  arches  or  frames  or  borders  ; 
their  grace  is  unconfined,  their  simplicity  undestroyed. 
Cima  da  Conegliano,  in  his  picture  in  the  church  of  the  Ma- 
donna dell'  Orto  at  Venice,  has  given  us  the  oak,  the  fig,  the 
beautiful  Erba  della  Madonna"  on  the  wall,  precisely  such 
a  bunch  of  it  as  may  l)e  seen  growing  at  this  day  on  the 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLE S. 


147 


marble  steps  of  that  very  church  ;  ivy  and  other  creepers, 
and  a  strawberry  plant  in  the  foreground,  with  a  blossom  and 
ji  berry  just  set,  and  one  half  ripe  and  one  ripe,  all  patiently 
and  innocently  painted  from  the  real  thing,  and  therefore 
most  divine.  Fra  Angelico's  use  of  the  oxalis  acetosella  is 
as  faithful  in  representation  as  touching  in  feeling.*  The 
ferns  that  grow  on  the  walls  of  Fiesole  may  be  seen  in  their 
simple  verity  on  the  architecture  of  Ghirlandajo.  The  rose, 
the  myrtle,  and  the  lily,  the  olive  and  orange,  pomegranate 
and  vine,  have  received  their  fairest  portraiture  where  they 
bear  a  sacred  character  ;  even  the  common  plantains  and 
mallows  of  the  waysides  are  touched  with  deep  reverence  by 
Raffaelle  ;  and  indeed  for  the  perfect  treatment  of  details  of 
this  kind,  treatment  as  delicate  and  affectionate  as  it  is  ele- 
vated and  manly,  it  is  to  the  works  of  these  schools  alone 
that  we  can  refer.  And  on  this  their  peculiar  excellence  I 
should  the  more  earnestly  insist,  because  it  is  of  a  kind  al- 
together neglected  by  the  English  school,  and  with  most  un- 
fortunate result,  many  of  our  best  painters  missing  their  de- 
served rank  solely  from  the  want  of  it,  as  Gainsborough  ; 
and  all  being  more  or  less  checked  in  their  progress  or  vul- 
garized in  their  aim. 

§  10.  Finish,  and  It  is  a  misfortune  for  all  honest  critics,  that 
how  ^^rlght^^and  hardly  any  quality  of  art  is  independently  to  be 
how  wrong.  praiscd,  and  without  reference  to  the  motive 
from  which  it  resulted,  and  the  place  in  which  it  appears  ;  so 
that  no  principle  can  be  simply  enforced  but  it  shall  seem  to 
countenance  a  vice  ;  while  the  work  of  qualification  and  ex- 
planation both  weakens  the  force  of  what  is  said,  and  is  not 
perhaps  always  likely  to  be  with  patience  received  :  so  also 
those  who  desire  to  misunderstand  or  to  oppose  have  it  always 
in  their  power  to  become  obtuse  listeners  or  specious  oppo- 
nents.   Thus  I  hardly  dare  insist  upon  the  virtue  of  comple- 

*  The  triple  leaf  of  this  plant,  and  white  flower,  stained  purple,  prob- 
ably gave  it  strange  typical  interest  among  the  Christian  painters. 
Angelico,  in  using  its  leaves  mixed  with  daisies  in  the  foreground  of 
his  Crucifixion  had,  I  imagine,  a  view  also  to  its  chemical  property. 


148 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


tion,  lest  I  should  be  supposed  a  defender  of  Wouvermans  or 
Gerard  Dow  ;  neither  can  I  adequately  praise  the  power  of 
Tintoret,  without  fearing  to  be  thought  adverse  to  Holbein 
or  Perugino.  The  fact  is,  that  both  finish  and  impetuosity, 
specific  minuteness,  or  large  abstraction,  may  be  the  signs  of 
passion,  or  of  its  reverse  ;  may  result  from  affection  or  in- 
difference, intellect  or  dulness.  Some  men  finish  from  in- 
tense love  of  the  beautiful  in  the  smallest  parts  of  what  they 
do  ;  others  in  pure  incapability  of  comprehending  anything 
but  parts  ;  others  to  show  their  dexterity  with  the  brush, 
and  prove  expenditure  of  time.  Some  are  impetuous  and 
bold  in  their  handling,  from  having  great  thoughts  to  ex- 
press which  are  independent  of  detail  ;  others  beca.use  they 
have  bad  taste  or  have  been  badly  taught ;  others  from  van- 
ity, and  others  from  indolence.  (Compare  Vol.  II.  Chap.  IX. 
§8.)  Now  both  the  finish  and  incompletion  are  right  where 
they  are  the  signs  of  passion  or  of  thought,  and  both  are 
wrong,  and  I  think  the  finish  the  more  contemptible  of  the 
two,  when  they  cease  to  be  so.  The  modern  Italians  will 
paint  every  leaf  of  a  laurel  or  rose-bush  without  the  slightest 
feeling  of  their  beauty  or  character  ;  and  without  showing 
one  spark  of  intellect  or  affection  from  beginning  to  end. 
Anything  is  better  than  this  ;  and  yet  the  very  highest 
schools  do  the  same  thing,  or  nearly  so,  but  with  totally 
different  motives  and  perceptions,  and  the  result  is  divine. 
On  the  whole,  I  conceive  that  the  extremes  of  good  and  evil 
lie  with  the  finishers,  and  that  whatever  glorious  power  we 
may  admit  in  men  like  Tintoret,  whatever  attractiveness  of 
method  to  Rubens,  Rembrandt,  or,  though  in  far  less  degree, 
our  own  Reynolds,  still  the  thoroughly  great  men  are  those 
who  have  done  everything  thoroughly,  and  who,  in  a  word, 
have  never  despised  anything,  however  small,  of  God's  mak- 
ing. And  this  is  the  chief  fault  of  our  English  landscapists, 
that  they  have  not  the  intense  all-observing  penetration  of 
well-balanced  mind  ;  they  have  not,  except  in  one  or  two  in- 
stances, anything  of  that  feeling  which  Wordsworth  shows 
in  the  following  lines  : — 


THE  FOBE GOING  PBINGIPLES.  149 


"  So  fair,  so  sweet,  witbal  so  sensitive;  — 
Would  that  the  little  flowers  were  born  to  live 
Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  which  they  give. 
That  to  this  mountain  daisy's  self  were  known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow^  thrown 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stane.''^ 

That  is  a  little  bit  of  good,  downright,  foreground  paint- 
ing— no  mistake  about  it  ;  daisy,  and  shadow,  and  stone 
texture  and  all.  Our  painters  must  come  to  this  before  they 
have  done  their  duty  ;  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  let  them 
beware  of  finishing,  for  the  sake  of  finish,  all  over  their  pict- 
ure. The  ground  is  not  to  be  all  over  daisies,  nor  is  every 
daisy  to  have  its  star-shaped  shadow  ;  there  is  as  much  finish 
in  the  right  concealment  of  things  as  in  the  right  exhibition 
of  them  ;  and  while  I  demand  this  amount  of  specific  char- 
acter where  nature  shows  it,  I  demand  equal  fidelity  to  her 
where  she  conceals  it.  To  paint  mist  rightly,  space  rightly, 
and  light  rightly,  it  may  be  often  necessary  to  paint  noth- 
ing else  rightly,  but  the  rule  is  simple  for  all  that  ;  if  the  artist 
is  painting  something  that  he  knows  and  loves,  as  he  knows  it 
because  he  loves  it,  whether  it  be  the  fair  strawberry  of  Cima, 
or  the  clear  sky  of  Francia,  or  the  blazing  incomprehensible 
mist  of  Turner,  he  is  all  right  ;  but  the  moment  he  does  any- 
thing as  he  thinks  it  ought  to  be,  because  he  does  not  care 
about  it,  he  is  all  wrong.  He  has  only  to  ask  himself  whether 
he  cares  for  anything  except  himself  ;  so  far  as  he  does  he 
will  make  a  good  picture  ;  so  far  as  he  thinks  of  himself  a 
vile  one.  This  is  the  root  of  the  viciousness  of  the  whole 
French  school.  Industry  they  have,  learning  they  have, 
power  they  have,  feeling  they  have,  yet  not  so  much  feeling 
as  ever  to  force  them  to  forget  themselves  even  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  the  ruling  motive  is  invariably  vanity,  and  the  pict- 
ure therefore  an  abortion. 

skies* ofttiere?^^  Returning  to  the  pictures  of  the  religious 
ious  schools,  how  schools,  we  find  that  their  open  skies  are  also  of 

valuable.  Moun-     i      i  .    i  .  . 

tain  clra^ving  of  the  highest  valuc.    Their  preciousness  is  such 

Masaccio.  Land-    .  i  ,  i  , 

scape  of  the  Bel-  that  no  subscqucnt  schools  can  by  comparison 
one!^^^  Giorgi-       ^^j^       have  painted  sky  at  all,  but  only 


150 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


clouds,  or  mist,  or  blue  canopies.  The  golden  sky  of  Marco 
Basaiti  in  the  Academy  of  Venice  altogether  overpowers 
and  renders  valueless  that  of  Titian  beside  it.  Those  of 
Francia  in  the  gallery  of  Bologna  are  even  more  wonder- 
ful, because  cooler  in  tone  and  behind  figures  in  full  light. 
The  touches  of  white  light  in  the  horizon  of  Angelico's 
Last  Judgment  are  felt  and  wrought  with  equal  truth.  The 
dignified  and  simple  forms  of  cloud  in  repose  are  often  by 
these  painters  sublimely  expressed,  but  of  changeful  cloud 
form  they  show  no  examples.  The  architecture,  mountains, 
and  water  of  these  distances  are  commonly  conventional ; 
motives  are  to  be  found  in  them  of  the  highest  beauty,  and 
especially  remarkable  for  quantity  and  meaning  of  incident ; 
but  they  can  only  be  studied  or  accepted  in  the  particular 
feeling  that  produced  them.  It  may  generally  be  observed 
that  whatever  has  been  the  result  of  strong  emotion  is  ill 
seen  unless  through  the  medium  of  such  emotion,  and  will 
lead  to  conclusions  utterly  false  and  perilous,  if  it  be  made 
a  subject  of  cold-hearted  observance,  or  an  object  of  sys- 
tematic imitation.  One  piece  of  genuine  mountain  drawing, 
however,  occurs  in  the  landscape  of  Masaccio's  Tribute 
Money.  It  is  impossible  to  say  what  strange  results  might 
have  taken  place  in  this  particular  field  of  art,  or  how  sud- 
denly a  great  school  of  landscape  might  have  arisen,  had  the 
life  of  this  great  painter  been  prolonged.  Of  this  particular 
fresco  I  shall  have  much  to  say  hereafter.  The  two  brothers 
Bellini  gave  a  marked  and  vigorous  impulse  to  the  landscape 
of  Venice,  of  Gentile's  architecture  I  shall  speak  presently. 
Giovanni's,  though  in  style  less  interesting  and  in  place  less 
prominent,  occurring  chiefly  as  a  kind  of  frame  to  his  pict- 
ures, connecting  them  with  the  architecture  of  the  churches 
for  which  they  were  intended,  is  in  refinement  of  realization, 
I  suppose,  quite  unrivalled,  especially  in  passages  requiring 
pure  gradation,  as  the  hollows  of  vaultings.  That  of  Ver- 
onese would  look  ghostly  beside  it  ;  that  of  Titian  lightless. 
His  landscape  is  occasionally  quaint  and  strange  like  Gior- 
gione's,  and  as  fine  in  color,  as  that  behind  the  Madonna  in 
the  Brera  gallery  at  Milan  ;  but  a  more  truthful  fragment 


THE  FOEE GOING  PUINCIPLES, 


151 


occurs  in  the  picture  in  San  Francesco  della  Vigna  at  Venice; 
and  in  the  picture  of  St.  Jerome  in  the  church  of  San  Gris- 
ostomo,  the  landscape  is  as  perfect  and  beautiful  as  any 
background  may  legitimately  be,  and  finer,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
than  anything  of  Titian's.  It  is  remarkable  for  the  absolute 
truth  of  its  sky,  whose  blue,  clear  as  crystal,  and  though 
deep  in  tone  bright  as  the  open  air,  is  gradated  to  the  hori- 
zon with  a  cautiousness  and  finish  almost  inconceivable  ; 
and  to  obtain  light  at  the  horizon  without  contradicting  the 
system  of  chiaroscuro  adopted  in  the  figures  which  are 
lio^hted  from  the  ri2:ht  hand,  it  is  barred  across  with  some 
glowing  white  cirri  which,  in  their  turn,  are  opposed  by  a 
single  dark  horizontal  line  of  lower  cloud  ;  and  to  throw  the 
w^hole  farther  back,  there  is  a  wreath  of  rain  cloud  of  warmer 
color  floating  above  the  mountains,  lighted  on  its  under 
edge,  whose  faithfulness  to  nature,  both  in  hue  and  in  its 
light  and  shattering  form,  is  altogether  exemplary  ;  the 
wandering  of  the  light  among  the  hills  is  equally  studied, 
and  the  whole  is  crowned  by  the  grand  realization  of  the 
leaves  of  the  fig-tree  alluded  to  (Vol.  II.  Part  iii.  Chap.  5,) 
as  well  as  of  the  herbage  upon  the  rocks.  Considering  that 
with  all  this  care  and  completeness  in  the  background,  there 
is  nothing  that  is  not  of  meaning  and  necessity  in  reference 
to  the  figures,  and  that  in  the  figures  themselves  the  dignity 
and  heavenliness  of  the  highest  religious  painters  are  com- 
bined with  a  force  and  purity  of  color,  greater  I  think  than 
Titian's,  it  is  a  work  which  may  be  set  before  the  young 
artist  as  in  every  respect  a  nearly  faultless  guide.  Giorgi- 
one's  landscape  is  inventive  and  solemn,  but  owing  to  the 
rarity  even  of  his  nominal  works  I  dare  not  speak  of  it 
in  general  terms.  It  is  certainly  conventional,  and  is  rather, 
I  imagine,  to  be  studied  for  its  color  and  its  motives  than  its 
details. 

Of  Titian  and  Tintoret  I  have  spoken  already. 

§  12.  Landscape    rx^^      ^  -  i 

of   Titian  and  I  he  latter  IS  every  way  the  orreater  master,  never 

Tintoret.  ,       ,         /.  rr^.  . 

indulging  in  the  exaggerated  color  of  Iitian,  and 
attaining  far  more  perfect  light  ;  his  grasp  of  nature  is  more 
extensive,  and  his  view  of  her  more  imaginative,  (incidental 


152 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


notices  of  his  landscape  will  be  found  in  the  chapter  on 
Imagination  penetrative,  of  the  second  volume,)  but  he  is 
usually  too  impatient  to  carry  his  thoughts  as  far  out,  or 
to  realize  with  as  much  substantiality  as  Titian.  In  the 
St.  Jerome  of  the  latter,  in  the  gallery  of  the  Brera,  there 
is  a  superb  example  of  the  modes  in  which  the  objects  of 
landscape  may  be  either  suggested  or  elaborated  according 
to  their  place  and  claim.  The  larger  features  of  the  ground, 
foliage,  and  drapery,  as  well  as  the  lion  in  the  lower  angle, 
are  executed  with  a  slightness  which  admits  not  of  close  ex- 
amination, and  which,  if  not  in  shade,  would  be  offensive  to 
the  generality  of  observers.  But  on  the  rock  above  the 
lion,  where  it  turns  towards  the  light,  and  where  the  eye  is 
intended  to  dwell,  there  is  a  wreath  of  ivy  of  which  every 
leaf  is  separately  drawn  with  the  greatest  accuracy  and  care, 
and  beside  it  a  lizard,  studied  with  equal  earnestness,  yet 
always  with  that  right  grandeur  of  manner  to  which  I  have 
alluded  in  the  preface.  Tintoret  seldom  reaches  or  attempts 
the  elaboration  in  substance  and  color  of  these  objects,  but 
he  is  even  more  truth-telling  and  certain  in  his  rendering  of 
all  the  great  characters  of  specific  form,  and  as  the  painter 
of  Space  he  stands  altogether  alone  among  dead  masters  ; 
being  the  first  who  introduced  the  slightness  and  confusion 
of  touch  which  are  expressive  of  the  effects  of  luminous  ob- 
jects seen  through  large  spaces  of  air,  and  the  principles  of 
aerial  color  which  have  been  since  carried  out  in  other  fields 
by  Turner.  I  conceive  him  to  be  the  most  powerful  painter 
whom  the  world  has  seen,  and  that  he  was  prevented  from 
being  also  the  most  perfect,  partly  by  untoward  circum- 
stances in  his  position  and  education,  partly  by  the  very 
fulness  and  impetuosity  of  his  own  mind,  partly  by  the  want 
of  religious  feeling  and  its  accompanying  perception  of 
beauty  ;  for  his  noble  treatment  of  religious  subject,  of 
which  I  have  given  several  examples  in  the  third  part, 
appears  to  be  the  result  only  of  that  grasp  which  a  great 
and  well-toned  intellect  necessarily  takes  of  any  subject 
submitted  to  it,  and  is  wanting  in  the  signs  of  the  more 
withdrawn  and  sacred  sympathies. 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES, 


153 


But  whatever  advances  were  made  by  Tintoret  in  modes 
of  artistical  treatment,  he  cannot  be  considered  as  having 
enlarged  the  sphere  of  landscape  conception.  He  took  no 
cognizance  even  of  the  materials  and  motives,  so  singularly 
rich  in  color,  which  were  forever  around  him  in  his  own 
Venice.  All  portions  of  Venetian  scenery  introduced  by 
him  are  treated  conventionally  and  carelessly  ;  the  architect- 
ural characters  lost  altogether,  the  sea  distinguished  from 
the  sky  only  by  a  darker  green,  while  of  the  sky  itself  only 
those  forms  were  employed  by  him  which  had  been  repeated 
again  and  again  for  centuries,  though  in  less  tangibility 
and  completion.  Of  mountain  scenery  he  has  left,  I  be- 
lieve, no  example  so  far  carried  as  that  of  John  Bellini  above 
instanced. 

The  Florentine  and  Ambrian  schools  supply 

§13.    Schools  of  .  ,  1         p  1      T  1 

Florence,  Milan,  US  With  no  examples  oi  landscape,  except  that 
and  Bologna.  introduced  by  their  earliest  masters,  gradually 
overwhelmed  under  renaissance  architecture. 

Leonardo's  landscape  has  been  of  unfortunate  effect  on 
art,  so  far  as  it  has  had  effect  at  all.  In  realization  of  detail 
he  verges  on  the  ornamental,  in  his  rock  outlines  he  has  all 
the  deficiencies  and  little  of  the  feeling  of  the  earlier  men. 
Behind  the  "  Sacrifice  for  the  Friends  "  of  Giotto  at  Pisa, 
there  is  a  sweet  piece  of  rock  incident,  a  little  fountain 
breaking  out  at  the  mountain  foot,  and  trickling  away,  its 
course  marked  by  branches  of  reeds,  the  latter  formal  enough 
certainly,  and  always  in  triplets,  but  still  with  a  sense  of 
nature  pervading  the  whole  which  is  utterly  wanting  to  the 
rocks  of  Leonardo  in  the  Holy  Family  in  the  Louvre.  The 
latter  are  grotesque  without  being  ideal,  and  extraordinary 
without  being  impressive.  The  sketch  in  the  Uffizii  of 
Florence  has  some  fine  foliage,  and  there  is  of  course  a  cer- 
tain virtue  in  all  the  work  of  a  man  like  Leonardo  which  I 
would  not  depreciate,  but  our  admiration  of  it  in  this  par- 
ticular field  must  be  qualified,  and  our  following  cautious. 

No  advances  were  made  in  landscape,  so  far  as  I  know, 
after  the  time  of  Tintoret  ;  the  power  of  art  ebbed  gradu- 
ally away  from  the  derivative  schools  ;  various  degrees  of 


154 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


cleverness  or  feeling  being  manifested  in  more  or  less  brill- 
iant conventionalism.  I  once  supposed  there  was  some  life 
in  the  landscape  of  Domenichino,  but  in  this  I  must  have 
been  wrong.  The  man  who  painted  the  Madonna  del  Ros- 
ario  and  Martyrdom  of  St.  Agnes  in  the  gallery  of  Bologna, 
is  palpably  incapable  of  doing  anything  good,  great,  or  right 
in  any  field,  way,  or  kind,  whatsoever.* 

§  14  Claude  Though,  however,  at  this  period  the  general 
the^Po^'ss  ns^^^  grasp  of  the  schools  was  perpetually  contract- 
ing, a  gift  was  given  to  the  world  by  Claude,  for 
which  we  are  perhaps  hardly  enough  grateful,  owing  to  the 
very  frequency  of  our  after  enjoyment  of  it.  He  set  the  sun 
in  heaven,  and  was,  I  suppose,  the  first  who  attempted  any- 
thing like  the  realization  of  actual  sunshine  in  misty  air.  He 
gives  the  first  example  of  the  study  of  nature  for  her  own 
sake,  and  allowing  for  the  unfortunate  circumstances  of  his 
education,  and  for  his  evident  inferiority  of  intellect,  more 
could  hardly  have  been  expected  from  him.    His  false  taste, 

*  This  is  no  rash  method  of  judgment,  sweeping  and  hasty  as  it  may 
appear.  From  the  weaknesses  of  an  artist,  or  failures,  however  numer- 
ous, we  have  no  right  to  conjecture  his  total  inability ;  a  time  may 
come  when  he  may  rise  into  sudden  strength,  or  an  instance  occur 
when  his  efforts  shall  be  successful.  But  there  are  some  pictures 
which  rank  not  under  the  head  of  failures,  but  of  perpetrations  or  com- 
missions ;  some  things  which  a  man  cannot  do  nor  say  without  sealing 
forever  his  character  and  capacity.  The  angel  holding  the  cross  with 
his  finger  in  his  eye,  the  roaring  red-faced  children  about  the  crown  of 
thorns,  the  blasphemous  (I  speak  deliberately  and  determinedly)  head 
of  Christ  upon  the  handkerchief,  and  the  mode  in  which  the  martyr- 
dom of  the  saint  is  exhibited  (I  do  not  choose  to  use  the  expressions 
which  alone  could  characterize  it)  are  perfect,  suflScient,  incontrovert- 
ible proofs  that  whatever  appears  good  in  any  of  the  doings  of  such  a 
painter  must  be  deceptive,  and  that  we  may  be  assured  that  our  taste 
is  corrupted  and  false  whenever  we  feel  disposed  to  admire  him.  I  am 
prepared  to  support  this  position,  however  uncharitable  it  may  seem  ; 
a  man  may  be  tempted  into  a  gross  sin  by  passion,  and  forgiven  ;  and 
yet  there  are  some  kinds  of  sins  into  which  only  men  of  a  certain  kind 
can  be  tempted,  and  which  cannot  be  forgiven.  It  should  be  added, 
however,  that  the  artistical  qualities  of  these  pictures  are  in  every  way 
worthy  of  the  conceptions  they  realize  ;  I  do  not  recollect  any  instances 
of  color  or  execution  so  coarse  and  feelingless. 


THE  FOREGOING  PRmCIPLES. 


155 


forced  composition,  and  ignorant  rendering  of  detail  have  per- 
haps been  of  more  detriment  to  art  than  the  gift  he  gave 
was  of  advantage.  The  character  of  his  own  mind  is  singu- 
lar ;  I  know  of  no  other  instance  of  a  man's  working  from 
nature  continually  with  the  desire  of  being  true,  and  never 
attaining  the  power  of  drawing  so  much  as  a  bough  of  a  tree 
rightly.  Salvator,  a  man  originally  endowed  with  far  higher 
power  of  mind  than  Claude,  was  altogether  unfaithful  to  his 
mission,  and  has  left  us,  I  believe,  no  gift.  Everything  that 
he  did  is  evidently  for  the  sake  of  exhibiting  his  own  dex- 
terity ;  there  is  no  love  of  any  kind  for  anything  ;  his  choice 
of  landscape  features  is  dictated  by  no  delight  in  the  sub-- 
lime,  but  by  mere  animal  restlessness  or  ferocity,  guided  by 
an  imaginative  power  of  which  he  could  not  altogether  de- 
prive himself.  He  has  done  nothing  which  others  have  not 
done  better,  or  which  it  would  not  have  been  better  not 
to  have  done  ;  in  nature,  he  mistakes  distortion  for  energy, 
and  savageness  for  sublimity  ;  in  man,  mendicity  for  sancti- 
ty, and  conspiracy  for  heroism. 

The  landscape  of  Nicolo  Poussin  shows  much  power,  and  is 
usually  composed  and  elaborated  on  right  principles,  (compare 
preface  to  second  edition,)  but  I  am  aware  of  nothing  that  it 
has  attained  of  new  or  peculiar  excellence  ;  it  is  a  graceful 
mixture  of  qualities  to  be  found  in  other  masters  in  higher 
degrees.  In  finish  it  is  inferior  to  Leonardo's,  in  invention 
to  Giorgione's,  in  truth  to  Titian's,  in  grace  to  Raffaelle's. 
The  landscapes  of  Gaspar  have  serious  feeling  and  often  valu- 
able and  solemn  color  ;  virtueless  otherwise,  they  are  full  of 
the  most  degraded  mannerism,  and  I  believe  the  admiration 
of  them  to  have  been  productive  of  extensive  evil  among  re- 
cent schools. 

§  15  German  '^^^  development  of  landsca^^e  north  of  the 
and  Flemish  Alps,  presents  US  with  the  same  s-eneral  phases 

landscape.  .  .  . 

under  modifications  dependent  partly  on  less  in- 
tensity of  feeling,  partly  on  diminished  availableness  of  land- 
scape material.  That  of  the  religious  painters  is  treated  with 
the  same  affectionate  completion  ;  but  exuberance  of  fancy 
sometimes  diminishes  the  influence  of  the  imagination,  and 


156  GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


the  absence  of  the  Italian  force  of  passion  admits  of  more  pa* 
tient  and  somewhat  less  intellectual  elaboration.  A  morbid 
habit  of  mind  is  evident  in  many,  seeming  to  lose  sight  of  the 
balance  and  relations  of  things^,  so  as  to  become  intense  in 
trifles,  gloomily  minute,  as  in  Albert  Durer  ;  and  this  min- 
gled with  a  feverish  operation  of  the  fancy,  which  appears 
to  result  from  certain  habitual  conditions  of  bodily  health 
rather  than  of  mental  culture,  (and  of  which  the  sickness 
without  the  power  is  eminently  characteristic  of  the  modern 
Germans  ;)  but  with  all  this  there  are  virtues  of  the  very 
highest  order  in  those  schools,  and  I  regret  that  my  knowl- 
edge is  insufficient  to  admit  of  my  giving  any  detailed  ac- 
count of  them. 

In  the  landscape  of  Rembrandt  and  Rubens,  we  have  the 
northern  parallel  to  the  power  of  the  Venetians.  Among  the 
etchings  and  drawings  of  Rembrandt,  landscape  thoughts 
may  be  found  not  unworthy  of  Titian,  and  studies  from  nat- 
ure of  sublime  fidelity  ;  but  his  system  of  chiaroscuro  was 
inconsistent  with  the  gladness,  and  his  peculiar  modes  of  feel- 
ing with  the  grace,  of  nature  ;  nor  from  my  present  knowl- 
edge can  I  name  any  work  on  canvas  in  which  he  has  carried 
out  the  dignity  of  his  etched  conceptions,  or  exhibited  any 
perceptiveness  of  new  truths. 

Not  so  Rubens,  who  perhaps  furnishes  us  with  the  first  in- 
stances of  complete  unconventional  unaffected  landscape. 
His  treatment  is  healthy,  manly,  and  rational,  not  very 
affectionate,  yet  often  condescending  to  minute  and  multi- 
tudinous detail  ;  always  as  far  as  it  goes  pure,  forcible,  and 
refreshing,  consummate  in  composition,  and  marvellous  in 
color.  In  the  Pitti  palace,  the  best  of  its  two  Rubens  land- 
scapes has  been  placed  near  a  characteristic  and  highly- 
finished  Titian,  the  marriage  of  St.  Catherine.  But  for  the 
grandeur  of  line  and  solemn  feeling  in  the  flock  of  sheep,  and 
the  figures  of  the  latter  work,  I  doubt  if  all  its  glow  and 
depth  of  tone  could  support  its  overcharged  green  and  blue 
against  the  open  breezy  sunshine  of  the  Fleming.  I  do  not 
mean  to  rank  the  art  of  Rubens  with  that  of  Titian,  but  it  is 
always  to  be  remembered  that-Titian  hardly  ever  paints  sun- 


THE  F  QBE  GOING  PRINCIPLES, 


157 


shine,  but  a  certain  opalescent  twilight  which  has  as  much  of 
human  emotion  as  of  imital^e  truth  in  it, — 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ;  " 

and  that  art  of  this  kind  must  always  be  liable  to  some  ap- 
pearance of  failure  when  compared  with  a  less  pathetic  state- 
ment of  facts. 

It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  the  licenses  taken  by  Rubens 
in  particular  instances  are  as  bold  as  his  general  statements 
are  sincere.  In  the  landscape  just  instanced  the  horizon  is 
an  oblique  line  ;  in  the  Sunset  of  our  own  gallery  many  of 
the  shadows  fall  at  right  angles  to  the  light  ;  and  in  a  pict- 
ure in  the  Dulwich  gallery  a  rainbow  is  seen  by  the  specta- 
tor at  the  side  of  the  sun. 

These  bold  and  frank  licenses  are  not  to  be  considered  as 
detracting  from  the  rank  of  the  painter  ;  they  are  usually 
characteristic  of  those  minds  whose  grasp  of  nature  is  so  cer- 
tain and  extensive  as  to  enable  them  fearlessly  to  sacrifice  a 
truth  of  actuality  to  a  truth  of  feeling.  Yet  the  young  artist 
must  keep  in  mind  that  the  painter's  greatness  consists  not 
in  his  taking,  but  in  his  atoning  for  them. 
§16.  the  lower  Among  the  professed  landscapists  of  the 
Dutch  schools.  D^tch  school,  we  find  much  dexterous  imitation 
of  certain  kinds  of  nature,  remarkable  usually  for  its  perse- 
vering rejection  of  whatever  is  great,  valuable,  or  affecting  in 
the  object  studied.  Where,  however,  they  show  real  desire 
to  paint  what  they  saw  as  far  as  they  saw  it,  there  is  of 
course  much  in  them  that  is  instructive,  as  in  Cuyp  and  in 
the  etchings  of  Waterloo,  which  have  even  very  sweet  and 
genuine  feeling  ;  and  so  in  some  of  their  architectural  paint- 
ers. But  the  object  of  the  great  body  of  them  is  merely  to 
display  manual  dexterities  of  one  kind  or  another,  and  their 
effect  on  the  public  mind  is  so  totally  for  evil,  that  though  I 
do  not  deny  the  advantage  an  artist  of  real  judgment  may 
derive  from  the  study  of  some  of  them,  I  conceive  the  best 
patronage  that  any  monarch  could  possibly  bestow  upon  the 


158 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


arts,  would  be  to  collect  the  whole  body  of  them  into  a  grand 
gallery  and  burn  it  to  the  ground. 

Passing  to  the  English  school,  we  find  a  con- 
fch^ooifwifsoiand  necting  link  between  them  and  the  Italians 
Gainsborough.  f^^^^^^  Richard  Wilson.  Had  this  artist 
studied  under  favorable  circumstances,  there  is  evidence  of 
his  having  possessed  power  enough  to  produce  an  original 
picture  ;  but,  corrupted  by  study  of  the  Poussins,  and  gath- 
ering his  materials  chiefly  in  their  field,  the  district  about 
Rome — a  district  especially  unfavorable,  as  exhibiting  no 
pure  or  healthy  nature,  but  a  diseased  and  overgrown  Flora 
among  half-developed  volcanic  rocks,  loose  calcareous  con- 
cretions, and  mouldering  wrecks  of  buildings — and  whose 
spirit,  I  conceive,  to  be  especially  opposed  to  the  natural 
tone  of  the  English  mind,  his  originality  was  altogether 
overpowered,  and,  though  he  paints  in  a  manly  way  and  oc- 
casionally reaches  exquisite  tones  of  color,  as  in  the  small 
and  very  precious  picture  belonging  to  Mr.  Rogers,  and 
sometimes  manifests  some  freshness  of  feeling,  as  in  the 
Villa  of  Msecenas  of  our  National  Gallery,  yet  his  pictures 
are  in  general  mere  diluted  adaptations  from  Poussin  and 
Salvator,  without  the  dignity  of  the  one  or  the  fire  of  the 
other. 

Not  so  Gainsborough — a  great  name  his,  whether  oi  the 
English  or  any  other  school.  The  greatest  colorist  since 
Rubens,  and  the  last,  I  think,  of  legitimate  colorists;  that  is  to 
say,  of  those  who  were  fully  acquainted  with  the  power  of 
their  material  ;  pure  in  his  English  feeling,  profound  in  his 
seriousness,  graceful  in  his  gayety,  there  are  nevertheless  cer- 
tain deductions  to  be  made  from  his  worthiness  which  yet  I 
dread  to  make,  because  my  knowledge  of  his  landscape  works 
is  not  extensive  enough  to  justify  me  in  speaking  of  them  de- 
cisively ;  but  this  is  to  be  noted  of  all  that  I  know,  that  they 
are  rather  motives  of  feeling  and  color  than  earnest  studies  ; 
that  their  .execution  is  in  some  degree  mannered,  and  always 
hasty  ;  that  they  are  altogether  wanting  in  the  affectionate 
detail  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  ;  and  that  their  color 
is  in  some  measure  dependent  on  a  bituminous  brown  and 


THE  FOREGOING  PEINGIPLE8. 


159 


conventional  green  which  have  more  of  science  than  of  truth 
in  them.  These  faults  may  be  sufficiently  noted  in  the  mag- 
nificent picture  presented  by  him  to  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  tested  by  a  comparison  of  it  with  the  Turner  (Llanberis,) 
in  the  same  room.  Nothing  can  be  more  attractively  lumi- 
nous or  aerial  than  the  distance  of  the  Gainsborough,  noth- 
ing more  bold  or  inventive  than  the  forms  of  its  crags  and 
the  diffusion  of  the  broad  distant  light  upon  them,  where  a 
vulo;ar  artist  would  have  thrown  them  into  dark  contrast. 
But  it  will  be  found  that  the  light  of  the  distance  is  brought 
out  by  a  violent  exaggeration  of  the  gloom  in  the  valley  ; 
that  the  forms  of  the  green  trees  which  bear  the  chief  light 
are  careless  and  ineffective  ;  that  the  markings  of  the  crags 
are  equally  hasty  ;  and  that  no  object  in  the  foreground  has 
realization  enough  to  enable  the  eye  to  rest  upon  it.  The 
Turner,  a  much  feebler  picture  in  its  first  impression,  and 
altogether  inferior  in  the  quality  and  value  of  its  individual 
hues,  will  yet  be  found  in  the  end  more  forcible,  because  un- 
exaggerated  ;  its  gloom  is  moderate  and  aerial,  its  light  deep 
in  tone,  its  color  entirely  unconventional,  and  the  forms  of 
its  rocks  studied  with  the  most  devoted  care.  With  Gains- 
borough terminates  the  series  of  painters  connected  with  the 
elder  schools.  By  whom,  among  those  yet  living  or  lately 
lost,  the  impulse  was  first  given  to  modern  landscape,  I  at- 
tempt not  to  decide.  Such  questions  are  rather  invidious 
than  interesting  ;  the  particular  tone  or  direction  of  any 
school  seems  to  me  always  to  have  resulted  rather  from  cer- 
tain phases  of  national  character,  limited  to  particular  pe- 
riods, than  from  individual  teaching  ;  and,  especially  among 
moderns,  what  has  been  good  in  each  master  has  been  com- 
monly original. 

§  18.  Constable,  I  have  already  alluded  to  the  simplicity  and 
Caicott.  earnestness  of  the  mind  of  Constable  ;   to  its 

vigorous  rupture  with  school  laws,  and  to  its  unfortunate 
error  on  the  opposite  side.  Unteachableness  seems  to 
have  been  a  main  feature  of  his  character,  and  there  is 
corresponding  want  of  veneration  in  the  way  he  approaches 
nature  herself.    His  early  education  and  associations  were 


160 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


also  against  him  ;  they  induced  in  him  a  morbid  preference 
of  subjects  of  a  low  order.  I  have  never  seen  any  work  of 
his  in  which  there  were  any  signs  of  his  being  able  to  draw, 
and  hence  even  the  most  necessary  details  are  painted  by 
him  inefficiently.  His  works  are  also  eminently  wanting 
both  in  rest  and  refinement,  and  Fuseli's  jesting  compliment 
is  too  true  ;  for  the  showery  weather  in  which  the  artist  de- 
lights,  misses  alike  the  majesty  of  storm  and  the  loveliness  of 
calm  weather  :  it  is  great-coat  weather,  and  nothing  more. 
There  is  strange  want  of  depth  in  the  mind  which  has  no 
pleasure  in  sunbeams  but  when  piercing  painfully  through 
clouds,  nor  in  foliage  but  when  shaken  by  the  wind,  nor  in 
light  itself  but  when  flickering,  glistening,  restless,  and  fee- 
ble. Yet,  with  all  these  deductions,  his  works  are  to  be 
deeply  respected  as  thoroughly  original,  thoroughly  honest, 
free  from  affectation,  manly  in  manner,  frequently  successful 
in  cool  color,  and  especially  realizing  certain  motives  of  Eng- 
lish scenery  with  perhaps  as  much  affection  as  such  scenery, 
unless  when  regarded  through  media  of  feeling  derived  from 
higher  sources,  is  calculated  to  inspire. 

On  the  works  of  Calcott,  high  as  his  reputation  stands,  I 
should  look  with  far  less  respect  ;  I  see  not  any  preference 
or  affection  in  the  artist  ;  there  is  no  tendency  in  him  with 
which  we  can  sympathize,  nor  does  there  appear  any  sign  of 
aspiration,  effort,  or  enjoyment  in  any  one  of  his  works.  He 
appears  to  have  completed  them  methodically,  to  have  been 
content  with  them  when  completed,  to  have  thought  them 
good,  legitimate,  regular  pictures  ;  perhaps  in  some  respects 
better  than  nature.  He  painted  everything  tolerably,  and 
nothing  excellently  ;  he  has  given  us  no  gift,  struck  for  us 
no  light,  and  though  he  has  produced  one  or  two  valuable 
works,  of  which  the  finest  I  know  is  the  Marine  in  the  pos- 
session of  Sir  J.  Swinburne,  they  will,  I  believe,  in  future 
have  no  place  among  those  considered  representative  of  the 
English  school. 

Throughout  the  ransre  of  elder  art  it  will  be 

§  19.     Peculiar  u       j  '     ^  t  ^X. 

tendency  of  re-  remembered  we  have  lound  no  instance  or  the 

cent  landscape.      c  '  .\  c  ^        •   i.'  £  u.   '  j. 

taithiul  painting  oi  mountain  scenery,  except 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES. 


161 


m  a  faded  background  of  Masaccio's  :  nothing  more  than 
rocky  eminences,  undulating  hills,  or  fantastic  crags,  and 
e-ren  these  treated  altogether  under  typical  forms.  The 
more  specific  study  of  mountains  seems  to  have  coincided 
with  the  most  dexterous  practice  of  water-color  ;  but  it  ad- 
mits of  doubt  whether  the  choice  of  subject  has  been  directed 
by  the  vehicle,  or  whether,  as  I  rather  think,  the  tendency 
of  national  feeling  has  been  followed  in  the  use  of  the  most 
appropriate  means.  Something  is  to  be  attributed  to  the 
increased  demand  for  slighter  works  of  art,  and  much  to  the 
sense  of  the  quality  of  objects  now  called  picturesque,  which 
appears  to  be  exclusively  of  modern  origin.  From  what  feel- 
ing the  character  of  middle-age  architecture  and  costume 
arose,  or  with  what  kind  of  affection  their  forms  were  re- 
garded by  the  inventors,  I  am  utterly  unable  to  guess  ;  but 
of  this  I  think  we  may  be  assured,  that  the  natural  instinct 
and  child-like  wisdom  of  those  days  were  altogether  different 
from  the  modern  feeling,  which  appears  to  have  taken  its 
origin  in  the  absence  of  such  objects,  and  to  be  based  rather 
on  the  strangeness  of  their  occurrence  than  on  any  real  affec- 
tion for  them  ;  and  which  is  certainly  so  shallow  and  ineffec- 
tive as  to  be  instantly  and  always  sacrificed  by  the  majority 
to  fashion,  comfort,  or  economy.  Yet  I  trust  that  there  is  a 
healthy  though  feeble  love  of  nature  mingled  with  it,  nature 
pure,  separate,  felicitous,  which  is  also  peculiar  to  the  mod- 
erns ;  and  as  signs  of  this  feeling,  or  ministers  to  it,  I  look 
with  veneration  upon  many  works  which,  in  a  technical 
point  of  view,  are  of  minor  importance. 

§20.  G-.  Robson,  ^  have  been  myself  indebted  for  much  teach- 
?se    ^the  terS  more  delight  to  those  of  the  late  G. 

"style."  Robson.    Weaknesses  there  are  in  them  mani- 

fold, much  bad  drawing,  much  forced  color,  much  over 
finish,  little  of  what  artists  call  composition  ;  but  there 
is  thorough  affection  for  the  thing  drawn  ;  they  are  serious 
and  quiet  in  the  highest  degree,  certain  qualities  of  atmos- 
phere and  texture  in  them  have  never  been  excelled,  and 
certain  facts  of  mountain  scenery  never  but  by  them  ex- 
pressed, as,  for  instance,  the  stillness  and  depth  of  the 
Vol.  I.— 11 


162 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


mountain  tarns,  with  the  reversed  imagery  of  their  darkness 
signed  across  by  the  soft  lines  of  faintly  touching  winds  ; 
the  solemn  flush  of  the  brown  fern  and  glowing  heath  under 
evening  light  ;  the  purple  mass  of  mountains  far  removed, 
seen  against  clear  still  twilight.  With  equal  gratitude  I 
look  to  the  drawings  of  David  Cox,  which,  in  spite  of  their 
loose  and  seemingly  careless  execution,  are  not  less  serious 
in  their  meaning,  nor  less  important  in  their  truth.  I  must, 
however,  in  reviewing  those  modern  works  in  which  certain 
modes  of  execution  are  particularly  manifested,  insist  espe- 
cially on  this  general  principle,  applicable  to  all  times  of  art  ; 
that  what  is  usually  called  the  style  or  manner  of  an  artist 
is,  in  all  good  art,  nothing  but  the  best  means  of  getting  at 
the  particular  truth  which  the  artist  wanted  ;  it  is  not  a 
mode  peculiar  to  himself  of  getting  at  the  same  truths  as 
other  men,  but  the  07ily  mode  of  getting  the  particular  facts 
he  desires,  and  which  mode,  if  others  had  desired  to  express 
those  facts,  they  also  must  have  adopted.  All  habits  of  ex- 
ecution persisted  in  under  no  such  necessity,  but  because  the 
artist  has  invented  them,  or  desires  to  show  his  dexterity  in 
them,  are  utterly  base  ;  for  every  good  painter  finds  so  much 
difficulty  in  reaching  the  end  he  sees  and  desires,  that  he 
has  no  time  nor  power  left  for  playing  tricks  on  the  road  to 
it  ;  he  catches  at  the  easiest  and  best  means  he  can  get  ;  it 
is  possible  that  such  means  may  be  singular,  and  then  it  will 
be  said  that  his  style  is  strange  ;  but  it  is  not  a  style  at  all, 
it  is  the  saying  of  a  particular  thing  in  the  only  way  in 
which  it  possibly  can  be  said.  Thus  the'  reed  pen  outline 
and  peculiar  touch  of  Prout,  which  are  frequently  considered 
as  mere  manner,  are  in  fact  the  only  means  of  expressing 
the  crumbling  character  of  stone  which  the  artist  loves  and 
desires.  That  character  never  has  been  expressed  except  by 
him,  nor  will  it  ever  be  expressed  except  by  his  means.  And 
it  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to  distinguish  this  kind  of 
necessary  and  virtuous  manner  from  the  conventional  man- 
ners very  frequent  in  derivative  schools,  and  always  utterly 
to  be  contemned,  wherein  an  artist,  desiring  nothing  and 
feeling  nothing,  executes  everything  in  his  own  particular 


THE  FO  EE  GO  ma  PRINCIPLES. 


163 


mode,  and  teaches  emulous  scholars  how  to  do  with  difficulty 
what  might  have  been  done  with  ease.  It  is  true  that  there 
are  sometimes  instances  in  which  great  masters  have  em- 
ployed different  means  of  getting  at  the  same  end,  but  in 
these  cases  their  choice  has  been  always  of  those  which  to 
them  appeared  the  shortest  and  most  complete  ;  their  prac- 
tice has  never  been  prescribed  by  affectation  or  continued 
from  habit,  except  so  far  as  must  be  expected  from  such 
weakness  as  is  common  to  all  men  ;  from  hands  that  neces- 
sarily do  most  readily  what  they  are  most  accustomed  to  do, 
and  minds  always  liable  to  prescribe  to  the  hands  that  which 
they  can  do  most  readily. 

The  recollection  of  this  will  keep  us  from  being  offended 
with  the  loose  and  blotted  handling  of  David  Cox.  There  is 
no  other  means  by  which  his  object  could  be  attained.  The 
looseness,  coolness,  and  moisture  of  his  herbage  ;  the  rust- 
ling crumpled  freshness  of  his  broad-leaved  weeds  ;  the  play 
of  pleasant  light  across  his  deep  heathered  moor  or  plashing 
sand  ;  the  melting  of  fragments  of  white  mist  into  the  drop- 
ping blue  above  ;  all  this  has  not  been  fully  recorded  except 
by  him,  and  what  there  is  of  accidental  in  his  mode  of  reach- 
ing it,  answers  gracefully  to  the  accidental  part  of  nature 
herself.  Yet  he  is  capable  of  more  than  this,  and  if  he  suf- 
fers himself  uniformly  to  paint  beneath  his  capability,  that 
which  began  in  feeling  must  necessarily  end  in  manner.  He 
paints  too  many  small  pictures,  and  perhaps  has  of  late  per- 
mitted his  peculiar  execution  to  be  more  manifest  than  is 
necessary.  Of  this,  he  is  himself  the  best  judge.  For  al- 
most all  faults  of  this  kind  the  public  are  answerable,  not  the 
painter.  I  have  alluded  to  one  of  his  grander  works — such 
as  I  should  wish  always  to  see  him  paint — in  the  preface  ;  an- 
other, I  think  still  finer,  a  red  sunset  on  distant  hills,  almost  un- 
equalled for  truth  and  power  of  color,  was  painted  by  him  sev- 
eral years  ago,  and  remains,  I  believe,  in  his  own  possession. 
§  21.  Copley  The  dcscrvcd  popularity  of  Copley  Fielding 
nomenJof'^dS'-  rendered  it  less  necessary  for  me  to  allude 

tant  color.  frequently  to  his  works  in  the  following  pages 
than  it  would   otherwise  have  been,  more  especially  as 


164 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


my  own  sympathies  and  enjoyments  are  so  entirely  directed 
in  the  channel  which  his  art  has  taken,  that  I  am  afraid  of 
trusting  them  too  far.  Yet  I  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to 
speak  of  myself  so  far  as  I  suppose  my  own  feelings  to  be 
representative  of  those  of  a  class  ;  and  I  suppose  that  there 
are  many  who,  like  myself,  at  some  period  of  their  life  have 
derived  more  intense  and  healthy  pleasure  from  the  works  of 
this  painter  than  of  any  other  whatsoever  ;  healthy,  because 
always  based  on  his  faithful  and  simple  rendering  of 
nature,  and  that  of  very  lovely  and  impressive  nature, 
altogether  freed  from  coarseness,  violence,  or  vulgarity. 
Various  references  to  that  which  he  has  attained  will 
be  found  subsequently  :  what  I  am  now  about  to  say 
respecting  what  he  has  not  attained,  is  not  in  depreciation  of 
what  he  has  accomplished,  but  in  regret  at  his  suffering 
powers  of  a  high  order  to  remain  in  any  measure  dormant. 

He  indulges  himself  too  much  in  the  use  of  crude  color. 
Pure  cobalt,  violent  rose,  and  purple,  are  of  frequent  occur- 
rence in  his  distances  ;  pure  siennas  and  other  browns  in  his 
foregrounds,  and  that  not  as  expressive  of  lighted  but  of 
local  color.  The  reader  will  find  in  the  following  chapters 
that  I  am  no  advocate  for  subdued  coloring  ;  but  crude 
color  is  not  bright  color,  and  there  was  never  a  noble  or 
brilliant  work  of  color  yet  produced,  whose  real  form  did  not 
depend  on  the  subduing  of  its  tints  rather  than  the  elevation 
of  them. 

It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  difficult  lessons  to  learn  in 
art,  that  the  warm  colors  of  distance,  even  the  most  glowing, 
are  subdued  by  the  air  so  as  in  no  wise  to  resemble  the  same 
color  seen  on  a  foreground  object  ;  so  that  the  rose  of  sun- 
set on  clouds  or  mountains  has  a  gray  in  it  which  dis- 
tinguishes it  from  the  rose  color  of  the  leaf  of  a  flower  ;  and 
the  mingling  of  this  gray  of  distance,  without  in  the 
slightest  degree  taking  away  the  expression  of  the  intense 
and  perfect  purity  of  the  color  in  and  by  itself,  is  perhaps 
the  last  attainment  of  the  great  landscape  colorist.  In  the 
same  way  the  blue  of  distance,  however  intense,  is  not  the 
blue  of  a  bright  blue  flower,  and  it  is  not  distinguished  from 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES, 


165 


it  by  different  texture  merely,  but  by  a  certain  intermixture 
and  under  current  of  warm  color,  which  is  altogether  want- 
ing in  many  of  the  blues  of  Fielding's  distances  ;  and  so  of 
every  bright  distant  color  ;  while  in  foreground  where  colors 
may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  pure,  yet  that  any  of  them  are  ex- 
pressive of  light  is  only  to  be  felt  where  there  is  the  accurate 
fitting  of  them  to  their  relative  shadows  which  we  find  in  the 
works  of  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoret,  Veronese,  Turner,  and 
all  other  great  colorists  in  proportion  as  they  are  so.  Of  this 
fitting  of  light  to  shadow  Fielding  is  altogether  regardless, 
so  that  his  foregrounds  are  constantly  assuming  the  aspect 
of  over-charged  local  color  instead  of  sunshine,  and  his 
figures  and  cattle  look  transparent. 

A2:ain,  the  finishing:  of  Fieldin^j^'s  foreo-rounds, 

§22.    Beauty  of  a    .1.   '    A        '         '         •      .        '.T  4- 

mountain  fore-  ES  regards  their  drawing,  is  minute  without  ac- 
ground.  curacy,  multitudinous  without  thought,  and  con- 

fused without  mystery.  Where  execution  is  seen  to  be  in 
measure  accidental,  as  in  Cox,  it  may  be  received  as  repre- 
sentative of  what  is  accidental  in  nature  ;  but  there  is  no 
part  of  Fielding's  foreground  that  is  accidental  ;  it  is  evidently 
worked  and  re-worked,  dotted,  rubbed,  and  finished  with 
great  labor,  and  where  the  virtue,  playfulness,  and  freedom 
of  accident  are  thus  removed,  one  of  two  virtues  must  be  sub- 
stituted  for  them.  Either  we  must  have  the  deeply  studied 
and  imaginative  foreground,  of  which  every  part  is  necessary 
to  every  other,  and  whose  every  spark  of  light  is  essential  to 
the  well-being  of  the  whole,  of  which  the  foregrounds  of 
Turner  in  the  Liber  Studiorum  are  the  most  eminent  exam- 
ples I  know,  or  else  we  must  have  in  some  measure  the 
botanical  faithfulness  and  realization  of  the  early  masters. 
Neither  of  these  virtues  is  to  be  found  in  Fielding's.  Its 
features,  though  grouped  with  feeling,  are  yet  scattered  and 
inessential.  Any  one  of  them  might  be  altered  in  many  ways 
without  doing  harm  ;  there  is  no  proportioned,  necessary, 
unalterable  relation  among  them  ;  no  evidence  of  invention 
or  of  careful  thought,  while  on  the  other  hand  there  is  no 
botanical  or  geological  accuracy,  nor  any  point  on  which  the 
eye  may  rest  with  thorough  contentment  in  its  realization. 


1G6 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


It  seems  strange  that  to  an  artist  of  so  quick  feeling  the 
details  of  a  mountain  foreground  should  not  prove  irresist- 
ibly attractive,  and  entice  him  to  greater  accuracy  of  study. 
There  is  not  a  fragment  of  its  living  rock,  nor  a  tuft  of  its 
heathery  herbage,  that  has  not  adorable  manifestations  of 
God's  working  thereu]3on.  The  harmonies  of  color  among 
the  native  lichens  are  better  than  Titian's ;  the  interwoven 
bells  of  campanula  and  heather  are  better  than  all  the  arab- 
esques of  the  Vatican  ;  they  need  no  improvement,  arrange- 
ment, nor  alteration,  nothing  but  love,  and  every  combination 
of  them  is  different  from  every  other,  so  that  a  painter  need 
never  repeat  himself  if  he  will  only  be  true  ;  yet  all  these 
sources  of  power  have  been  of  late  entirely  neglected  by 
Fielding  ;  there  is  evidence  through  all  his  foregrounds  of 
their  being  mere  home  inventions,  and  like  all  home  inven- 
tions they  exhibit  perpetual  resemblances  and  repetitions  ; 
the  painter  is  evidently  embarrassed  without  his  rutted  road 
in  the  middle,  and  his  boggy  pool  at  the  side,  which  pool  he 
has  of  late  painted  in  hard  lines  of  violent  blue  :  there  is  not 
a  stone,  even  of  the  nearest  and  most  important,  which  has 
its  real  lichens  upon  it,  or  a  studied  form  or  anything  more  to 
occupy  the  mind  than  certain  variations  of  dark  and  light 
browns.  The  same  faults  must  be  found  with  his  present 
painting  of  foliage,  neither  the  stems  nor  leafage  being  ever 
studied  from  nature  ;  and  this  is  the  more  to  be  regretted, 
because  in  the  earlier  works  of  the  artist  there  was  much 
admirable  drawing,  and  even  yet  his  power  is  occasionally 
developed  in  his  larger  works,  as  in  a  Bolton  Abbey  on  can- 
vas, which  was, — I  cannot  say,  exhibited, — but  was  in  the 
rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy  in  1843."*    T  should  have  made 

*  It  appears  not  to  be  sufficiently  understood  by  those  artists  who 
complain  acrimoniously  of  their  position  on  the  Academy  walls,  that  the 
Academicians  have  in  their  own  rooms  a  right  to  the  line  and  the  best 
places  near  it ;  in  their  taking  this  position  there  is  no  abuse  nor  in- 
justice; but  the  Academicians  should  remember  that  with  their  rights 
they  have  their  duties,  and  their  duty  is  to  determine  among  the  works 
of  artists  not  belonging  to  their  body  those  which  are  most  likely  to  ad- 
vance public  knowledge  and  judgment,  and  to  give  these  the  best  places 
next  their  own;  neither  would  it  detract  from  their  dignity  if  they 


THE  FOBE GOING  PRINCIPLES. 


the  preceding  remarks  with  more  hesitation  and  diffidence, 
but  that,  from  a  comparison  of  works  of  this  kind  with  the 
slighter  ornaments  of  the  water-color  rooms,  it  seems  evident 
that  the  painter  is  not  unaware  of  the  deficiencies  of  these 
latter,  and  concedes  something  of  what  he  would  himself  de- 
sire to  what  he  has  found  to  be  the  feeling  of  a  majority  of 
his  admirers.  This  is  a  dangerous  modesty,  and  especially  so 
in  these  days  when  the  judgment  of  the  many  is  palpably  as 
artificial  as  their  feeling  is  cold. 

There  is  much  that  is  instructive  and  deservino- 

§  23.     De  Wint.       «  ,  .    ,  .      .       .       ,        .  r.         ttt  • 

oi  nigh  praise  in  tlie  sketches  or  De  Wint.  Yet 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  even  the  pursuit  of  truth,  how- 
ever determined,  wnll  have  results  limited  and  imperfect 
when  its  chief  motive  is  the  pride  of  being  true  ;  and  I  fear 
that  these  works,  sublime  as  many  of  them  have  unquestion- 
ably been,  testify  more  accuracy  of  eye  and  experience  of  color 
than  exercise  of  thought.  Their  truth  of  effect  is  often  pur- 
chased at  too  great  an  expense  by  the  loss  of  all  beauty  of 
form,  and  of  the  higher  refinements  of  color  ;  deficiencies, 
however,  on  which  I  shall  not  insist,  since  the  value  of  the 
sketches,  as  far  as  they  go,  is  great  ;  they  have  done  good 

occasionally  ceded  a  square  even  of  their  own  territory,  as  they  did 
gracefully  and  rightly,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  add,  disinterestedly,  to  the 
picture  of  Paul  de  la  Roche  in  1844.  Now  the  Academicians  know  per- 
fectly well  that  the  mass  of  portrait  which  encumbers  their  walls  at  half 
height  is  worse  than  useless,  seriously  harmful  to  the  public  taste,  and 
it  wns  highly  criminal  (I  use  the  word  advisedly)  that  the  valuable  and 
interesting  work  of  Fielding,  of  which  I  have  above  spoken,  should  have 
been  placed  where  it  was,  above  three  rows  of  eye-glasses  and  waist- 
coats. A  very  beautiful  work  of  Harding^s  was  treated  either  in 
same  or  the  following  exhibition,  with  still  greater  injustice.  Fielding's 
was  merely  put  out  of  sight ;  Harding's  where  its  faults  were  conspicu- 
ous and  its  virtues  lost.  It  was  an  Alpine  scene,  of  which  the  fore- 
ground, rocks,  and  torrents  were  painted  with  unrivalled  fidelity  and 
precision  ;  the  foliage  was  dexterous,  the  aerial  gradations  of  the  moun- 
tains tender  and  multitudinous,  their  forms  carefully  studied  and  very 
grand.  The  blemish  of  the  picture  was  a  buff-colored  tower  with  a  red 
roof ;  singularly  meagre  in  detail,  and  conventionally  relieved  from  a 
mass  of  gloom.  The  picture  was  placed  where  nothing  but  this  tower 
could  be  seen. 


168 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


service  and  set  good  example,  and  whatever  their  failings 
may  be,  there  is  evidence  in  them  that  the  painter  has  al- 
ways done  what  he  believed  to  be  right. 

The  influence  of  the  masters  of  whom  we  have 
If^^'  EngravSi^.  hitherto  spoken  is  confined  to  those  who  have  ac- 
j.  D.  Harding.  ^^^^  their  actual  works,  since  the  particular 
qualities  in  which  they  excel,  are  in  no  wise  to  be  rendered  by 
the  engraver.  Those  of  whom  we  have  next  to  speak  are  known 
to  the  public  in  a  great  measure  by  the  help  of  the  engraver  ; 
and  while  their  influence  is  thus  very  far  extended,  their 
modes  of  working  are  perhaps,  in  some  degree  modified  by 
the  habitual  reference  to  the  future  translation  into  light  and 
shade  ;  reference  which  is  indeed  beneficial  in  the  care  it  in- 
duces respecting  the  arrangement  of  the  chiaroscuro  and  the 
explanation  of  the  forms,  but  which  is  harmful,  so  far  as  it 
involves  a  dependence  rather  on  quantity  of  picturesque 
material  than  on  substantial  color  or  simple  treatment,  and 
as  it  admits  of  indolent  diminution  of  size  and  slightness  of 
execution. 

We  should  not  be  just  to  the  present  works  of  J.  D.  Hard- 
ing unless  we  took  this  influence  into  account.  Some  years 
back  none  of  our  artists  realized  more  laboriously,  nor 
obtained  more  substantial  color  and  texture  ;  a  large  draw- 
ing in  the  possession  of  B.  G.  Windus,  Esq.,  of  Tottenham, 
is  of  great  value  as  an  example  of  his  manner  at  the  period  ; 
a  manner  not  only  careful,  but  earnest,  and  free  from  any 
kind  of  affectation.  Partly  from  the  habit  of  making  slight 
and  small  drawings  for  engravers,  and  partly  also,  I  imagine, 
f^m  an  overstrained  seeking  after  appearances  of  dexterity 
in  execution,  his  drawings  have  of  late  years  become  both 
less  solid  and  less  complete  ;  not,  however,  without  attain- 
ing certain  brilliant  qualities  in  exchange  which  are  very 
valuable  in  the  treatment  of  some  of  the  looser  portions  of 
subject.  Of  the  extended  knowledge  and  various  powers  of 
this  painter,  frequent  instances  are  noted  in  the  following 
pages.  Neither,  perhaps,  are  rightly  estimated  among 
artists,  owing  to  a  certain  coldness  of  sentiment  in  his  choice 
of  subject,  and  a  continual  preference  of  the  picturesque  to 


THE  FORE  GOING  PIUNGIPLES. 


169 


the  impressive  ;  proved  perhaps  in  nothing  so  distinctly  as 
in  the  little  interest  usually  attached  to  his  skies,  which,  if 
aerial  and  expressive  of  space  and  movement,  content  him, 
though  destitute  of  story,  power,  or  character  :  an  exception 
must  be  made  in  favor  of  the  very  grand  sunrise  on  the 
Swiss  Alps,  exhibited  in  1844,  wherein  the  artist's  real  power 
was  in  some  measure  displayed,  though  I  am  convinced  he 
is  still  capable  of  doing  far  greater  things.  So  in  his  foliage 
he  is  apt  to  sacrifice  the  dignity  of  his  trees  to  their  wild- 
ness,  and  lose  the  forest  in  the  copse,  neither  is  he  at  all  ac- 
curate enough  in  his  expression  of  species  or  realization  of 
near  portions.  These  are  deficiencies,  be  it  observed,  of  sen- 
timent, not  of  perception,  as  there  are  few  who  equal  him  in 
rapidity  of  seizure  of  material  truth. 

Very  extensive  influence  in  modern  art  must  be  attributed 
to  the  works  of  Samuel  Prout  ;  and  as  there  are  some  cir- 
cumstances belonging  to  his  treatment  of  architectural  sub- 
§  25  Samuel  ^^^^  which  it  does  not  come  within  the  sphere 
Prout.      Early  of  the  followin^:  chapters  to  examine,  I  shall 

painting  of  archi-  . 

lecture,  how  defi-  endcavor  to  note  the  more  important  of  them 

cient.  , 

here. 

Let  us  glance  back  for  a  moment  to  the  architectural  draw- 
ing of  earlier  times.  Before  the  time  of  the  Bellinis  at  Yen- 
ice,  and  of  Ghirlandajo  at  Florence,  I  believe  there  are  no  ex- 
amples of  anything  beyond  conventional  representation  of 
architecture,  often  rich,  quaint,  and  full  of  interest,  as  Mem- 
mi's  abstract  of  the  Duomo  at  Florence  at  S*^  Maria  No- 
vella ;  but  not  to  be  classed  with  any  genuine  efforts  at  rep- 
resentation. It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  power  and 
custom  of  introducing  well-drawn  architecture  should  have 
taken  place  only  when  architectural  taste  had  been  itself  cor- 
rupted, and  that  the  architecture  introduced  by  Bellini,  Ghir- 
landajo, Francia,  and  the  other  patient  and  powerful  work- 
men of  the  fifteenth  century,  is  exclusively  of  the  renaissance 
styles  ;  while  their  drawing  C)f  it  furnishes  little  that  is  of 
much  interest  to  the  architectural  draughtsman  as  such,  be- 
ing always  governed  by  a  reference  to  its  subordinate  posi- 
tion, so  that  all  forceful  shadow  and  play  of  color  are  (most 


170  GENERAL  APPLICATION'  OF 


justly)  surrendered  for  quiet  and  uniform  hues  of  gray  and 
chiaroscuro  of  extreme  simplicity.  Whatever  they  chose  to 
do  they  did  with  consummate  grandeur,  (note  especially  the 
chiaroscuro  of  the  square  window  of  Ghirlandajo's,  which  so 
much  delighted  Yasari,  in  S*^^  Maria  Novella  ;  and  the  daring 
management  of  a  piece  of  the  perspective  in  the  Salutation, 
opposite,  where  he  has  painted  a  flight  of  stairs  descending  in 
front,  though  the  picture  is  twelve  feet  above  the  eye) ;  and 
yet  this  grandeur,  in  all  these  men,  results  rather  from  the 
general  power  obtained  in  their  drawing  of  the  figure  than 
from  any  definite  knowledge  respecting  the  things  introduced 
in  these  accessory  parts  ;  so  that  while  in  some  points  it  is 
impossible  for  any  painter  to  equal  these  accessories,  unless 
he  were  in  all  respects  as  great  as  Ghirlandajo  or  Bellini,  in 
others  it  is  possible  for  him,  with  far  inferior  powers,  to  at- 
tain a  representation  both  more  accurate  and  more  inter- 
esting. 

In  order  to  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  these,  we  must  briefly 
take  note  of  a  few  of  the  modes  in  which  architecture  itself 
is  agreeable  to  the  mind,  especially  of  the  influence  upon  the 
character  of  the  building  which  is  to  be  attributed  to  the 
signs  of  age. 

§26.  Effects  of  evident,  first,  that  if  the  design  of  the 

rng8,"^how"far  ^^i^^^^^g  t)e  Originally  bad,  the  only  virtue  it  can 
desirable.  evcr  posscss  will  be  in  signs  of  antiquity.  All 

that  in  this  world  enlarges  the  sphere  of  affection  or  imagina- 
tion is  to  be  reverenced,  and  all  those  circumstances  enlarge 
it  which  strengthen  our  memory  or  quicken  our  conception 
of  the  dead  ;  hence  it  is  no  light  sin  to  destroy  anything  that 
is  old,  more  especially  because,  even  with  the  aid  of  all  ob- 
tainable records  of  the  past,  we,  the  living,  occupy  a  space 
of  too  large  importance  and  interest  in  our  own  eyes  ;  we 
look  upon  the  world  too  much  as  our  own,  too  much  as  if  we 
had  possessed  it  and  should  possess  it  forever,  and  forget  that 
it  is  a  mere  hostelry,  of  which  we  occupy  the  apartments  for 
a  time,  which  others  better  than  we  have  sojourned  in  before, 
who  are  now  where  we  should  desire  to  be  with  them.  Fort- 
unately for  mankind,  as  some  counterbalance  to  that  wretched 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES,  171 


love  of  novelty  which  originates  in  selfishness,  shallowness, 
and  conceit,  and  which  especially  characterizes  all  vulgar 
minds,  there  is  set  in  the  deeper  places  of  the  heart  such  af- 
fection for  the  signs  of  age  that  the  eye  is  delighted  even  by 
injuries  which  are  the  work  of  time  ;  not  but  that  there  is 
also  real  and  absolute  beauty  in  the  forms  and  colors  so  ob- 
tained, for  which  the  original  lines  of  the  architecture,  unless 
they  have  been  very  grand  indeed,  are  well  exchanged,  so 
that  there  is  hardly  any  building  so  ugly  but  that  it  may  be 
made  an  agreeable  object  by  such  appearances.  It  would  not 
be  easy,  for  instance,  to  find  a  less  pleasing  piece  of  architect- 
ure than  the  portion  of  the  front  of  Queen's  College,  Ox- 
ford, which  has  just  been  restored  ;  yet  I  believe  that  few 
persons  could  have  looked  with  total  indifference  on  the 
mouldering  and  peeled  surface  of  the  oolite  limestone  previ- 
ous to  its  restoration.  If,  however,  the  character  of  the 
building  consist  in  minute  detail  or  multitudinous  lines,  the 
evil  or  good  effect  of  age  upon  it  must  depend  in  great  meas- 
ure on  the  kind  of  art,  the  material,  and  the  climate.  The 
Parthenon,  for  instance,  would  be  injured  by  any  markings 
which  interfered  with  the  contours  of  its  sculptures  ;  and 
any  lines  of  extreme  purity,  or  colors  of  original  harmony 
and  perfection  are  liable  to  injury,  and  are  ill  exchanged  for 
mouldering  edges  or  brown  weatherstains. 

But  as  all  architecture  is,  or  ought  to  be,  meant  to  be 
durable,  and  to  derive  part  of  its  glory  from  its  antiquity, 
all  art  that  is  liable  to  mortal  injury  from  effects  of  time  is 
therein  out  of  place,  and  this  is  another  reason  for  the  prin- 
ciple I  have  asserted  in  the  second  part,  page  277.  I  do  not 
at  this  instant  recollect  a  single  instance  of  any  very  fine 
building  which  is  not  improved  up  to  a  certain  period  by  all 
its  signs  of  age,  after  which  period,  like  all  other  human 
works,  it  necessarily  declines,  its  decline  being  in  almost  all 
ages  and  countriffe  accelerated  by  neglect  and  abuse  in  its 
time  of  beauty,  and  alteration  or  restoration  in  its  time  of 
age. 

Thus  I  conceive  that  all  buildings  dependent  on  color, 
whether  of  mosaic  or  painting,  have  their  effect  improved 


172  GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 

by  the  richness  of  the  subsequent  tones  of  age  ;  for  there 
are  few  arrangements  of  color  so  perfect  but  that  they  are 
capable  of  improvement  by  some  softening  and  blending  of 
this  kind  :  with  mosaic,  the  improvement  may  be  considered 
as  proceeding  almost  so  long  as  the  design  can  be  distinctly 
seen  ;  with  painting,  so  long  as  the  colors  do  not  change  or 
chip  off. 

Again,  upon  all  forms  of  sculptural  ornament,  the  effect  of 
time  is  such,  that  if  the  design  be  poor,  it  will  enrich  it  ;  if 
overcharged,  simplify  jt  ;  if  harsh  and  violent,  soften  it  ;  if 
smooth  and  obscure,  exhibit  it  ;  whatever  faults  it  may  have 
are  rapidly  disguised,  whatever  virtue  it  has  still  shines  and 
steals  out  in  the  mellow  light  ;  and  this  to  such  an  extent, 
that  the  artist  is  always  liable  to  be  tempted  to  the  drawing 
of  details  in  old  buildings  as  of  extreme  bfeauty,  which  look 
cold  and  hard  in  their  architectural  lines  ;  and  I  have  never 
yet  seen  any  restoration  or  cleaned  portion  of  a  building 
whose  effect  was  not  inferior  to  the  weathered  parts,  even  to 
those  of  which  the  design  had  in  some  parts  almost  disap- 
peared. On  the  front  of  the  church  of  San  Michele  at  Lucca, 
the  mosaics  have  fallen  out  of  half  the  columns,  and  lie  in 
weedy  ruin  beneath  ;  in  many,  the  frost  has  torn  large 
masses  of  the  entire  coating  away,  leaving  a  scarred  un- 
sightly surface.  Two  of  the  shafts  of  the  upper  star  win- 
dow are  eaten  entirely  away  by  the  sea  wind,  the  rest  have 
lost  their  proportions,  the  edges  of  the  arches  are  hacked 
into  deep  hollows,  and  cast  indented  shadows  on  the  weed- 
grown  wall.  The  process  has  gone  too  far,  and*  yet  I  doubt 
not  but  that  this  building  is  seen  to  greater  advantage  now 
than  when  first  built,  always  with  exception  of  one  circum- 
stance, that  the  French  shattered  the  lower  wheel  window, 
and  set  up  in  front  of  it  an  escutcheon  with  "  Libertas " 
upon  it,  which  abomination  of  desolation,  the  Lucchese  have 
not  yet  had  human-heartedness  enough  to^ull  down. 

Putting  therefore  the  application  of  architecture  as  an  ac- 
cessory out  of  the  question,  and  supposing  our  object  to  be 
the  exhibition  of  the  most  impressive  qualities  of  the  build- 
ing itself,  it  is  evidently  the  duty  of  the  draughtsman  to 


THE  FOREGOING  PBINCIPLE8, 


173 


represent  it  under  those  conditions,  and  with  that  amount 
of  age-mark  upon  it  which  may  best  exalt  and  harmonize  the 
sources  of  its  beauty  :  this  is  no  pursuit  of  mere  pictu- 
resqueness,  it  is  true  following  out  of  the  ideal  character  of 
the  building  ;  nay,  far  greater  dilapidation  than  this  may  in 
portions  be  exhibited,  for  there  are  beauties  of  other  kinds, 
not  otherwise  attainable,  brought  out  by  advanced  dilapida- 
tion ;  but  w^hen  the  artist  suffers  the  mere  love  of  ruinous- 
ness  to  interfere  with  his  perception  of  the  art  of  the  build- 
ing, and  substitutes  rude  fractures  and  blotting  stains  for 
all  its  fine  chiselling  and  determined  color,  he  has  lost  the 
end  of  his  own  art. 

So  far  of  asrins:  :  next  of  effects  of  lio^ht  and 

§27.    Effects  of  T  u   r  U     ^1  u  u 

light,  how  neces-  color.  it  IS,  i  believe,  hardly  enough  observed 
standing  of ° de-  among  architects  that  the  same  decorations  are 
^^^*  of  totally  different  effect  according  to  their  posi- 

tion and  the  time  of  day.  A  moulding  which  is  of  value  on 
a  building  facing  south,  where  it  takes  deep  shadows  from 
steep  sun,  may  be  utterly  ineffective  if  placed  west  or  east  ; 
and  a  moulding  which  is  chaste  and  intelligible  in  shade  on 
a  north  side,  may  be  grotesque,  vulgar,  or  confused  when  it 
takes  black  shadows  on  the  south.  Farther,  there  is  a  time 
of  day  in  which  every  architectural  decoration  is  seen  to 
best  advantage,  and  certain  times  in  which  its  peculiar  force 
and  character  are  best  explained  ;  of  these  niceties  the  arch- 
itect takes  little  cognizance,  as  he  must  in  some  sort  calcu- 
late on  the  effect  of  ornament  at  all  times  ;  but  to  the  artist 
they  are  of  infinite  importance,  and  especially  for  this  reason, 
that  there  is  always  much  detail  on  buildings  which  cannot 
be  drawn  as  such,  which  is  too  far  off,  or  too  minute,  and 
which  must  consequently  be  set  down  in  short-hand  of  some 
kind  or  another  ;  and,  as  it  were,  an  abstract,  more  or  less 
philosophical,  made  of  its  general  heads.  Of  the  style  of  this 
abstract,  of  the  lightness,  confusion,  and  mystery  necessary 
in  it,  I  have  spoken  elsewhere  ;  at  present  I  insist  only  on 
the  arrangement  and  matter  of  it.  All  good  ornament  and 
all  good  architecture  are  capable  of  being  put  into  short- 
hand ;  that  is,  each  has  a  perfect  system  of  parts,  principal 


174 


oenehal  application  of 


and  subordinate,  of  which,  even  when  the  complemental  de- 
tails vanish  in  distance,  the  system  and  anatomy  yet  remain 
visible  so  long  as  anything  is  visible  ;  so  that  the  divisions 
of  a  beautiful  spire  shall  be  known  as  beautiful  even  till 
their  last  line  vanishes  in  blue  mist,  and  the  effect  of  a  well- 
designed  moulding  shall  be  visibly  disciplined,  harmonious, 
and  inventive,  as  long  as  it  is  seen  to  be  a  moulding  at  all. 
Now  the  power  of  the  artist  of  marking  this  character  de- 
pends not  on  his  complete  knowledge  of  the  design,  but  on 
his  experimental  knowledge  of  its  salient  and  bearing  parts, 
and  of  the  effects  of  light  and  shadow,  by  which  their  sali- 
ency  is  best  told.  He  must  therefore  be  prepared,  according 
to  his  subject,  to  use  light,  steep  or  level,  intense  or  feeble, 
and  out  of  the  resulting  chiaroscuro  select  those  peculiar 
and  hinging  points  on  which  the  rest  are  based,  and  by  which 
all  else  that  is  essential  may  be  explained. 

The  thoughtful  command  of  all  these  circumstances  con- 
stitutes the  real  architectural  draughtsman  ;  the  habits  of 
executing  everything  either  under  one  kind  of  effect  or  in 
one  manner,  or  of  usino;  unintellio^ible  and  meanino^less  ab- 
stracts  of  beautiful  designs,  are  those  which  must  commonly 
take  the  place  of  it  and  are  the  most  extensively  esteemed.* 
„       *  V,..  ^       Let  us  now  proceed  with  our  review  of  those 

§  28.    Architect-         ^  ^ 

urai  painting  of  artists  who  have  devoted  themselves  more  pecul- 

Gentile     Bellini    .  ^       ^  - 

and  vittor  Car-  larly  to  architectural  subject. 

Foremost  among  them  stand  Gentile  Bellini 
and  Vittor  Carpaccio,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  only 
existing  faithful  statements  of  the  architecture  of  Old  Ven- 
ice, and  who  are  the  only  authorities  to  whom  we  can  trust 
in  conjecturing  the  former  beauty  of  those  few  desecrated 
fragments,  the  last  of  which  are  now  being  rapidly  swept 
away  by  the  idiocy  of  modern  Venetians. 

Nothing  can  be  more  careful,  nothing  more  delicately  fin- 
ished, or  more  dignified  in  feeling  than  the  works  of  both 

*  I  have  not  g-iven  any  examples  in  this  place,  because  it  is  difficult 
to  explain  such  circumstances  of  effect  without  diagrams  :  I  purpose 
entering  into  fuller  discussion  of  the  subject  with  the  aid  of  illustra- 
tion. 


THE  FOBEQOma  PBINGIPLE8. 


175 


these  men  ;  and  as  architectural  evidence  they  are  the  best 
we  could  have  had,  all  the  gilded  parts  being  gilt  in  the  pict- 
ure, so  that  there  can  be  no  mistake  or  confusion  of  them 
with  yellow  color  or  light,  and  all  the  frescoes  or  mosaics 
given  ^ith  the  most  absolute  precision  and  fidelity.  At  the 
same  time  they  are  by  no  means  examples  of  perfect  archi- 
tectural drawing  ;  there  is  little  light  and  shade  in  them  of 
any  kind,  and  none  whatever  of  the  thoughtful  observance 
of  temporary  effect  of  which  we  have  just  been  speaking  ; 
so  that,  in  rendering  the  character  of  the  relieved  parts, 
their  solidity,  depth,  or  gloom,  the  representation  fails  alto- 
gether, and  it  is  moreover  lifeless  from  its  very  completion, 
both  the  signs  of  age  and  the  effects  of  use  and  habitation 
being  utterly  rejected  ;  rightly  so,  indeed,  in  these  instances, 
(all  the  architecture  of  these  painters  being  in  background 
to  religious  subject,)  but  wrongly  so,  if  we  look  to  the  archi- 
tecture alone.  Neither  is  there  anything  like  aerial  per- 
spective attempted  ;  the  employment  of  actual  gold  in  the 
decoration  of  all  the  distances,  and  the  entire  realization  of 
their  details,  as  far  as  is  possible  on  the  scale  compelled  by 
perspective,  being  alone  sufficient  to  prevent  this,  except  in 
the  hands  of  painters  far  more  practised  in  effect  than  either 
Gentile  or  Carpaccio.  But  with  all  these  discrepancies. 
Gentile  Bellini's  church  of  St.  Mark's  is  the  best  church  of 
St.  Mark's  that  has  ever  been  painted,  so  far  as  I  know  ; 
and  I  believe  the  reconciliation  of  true  aerial  perspective 
and  chiaroscuro  with  the  splendor  and  dignity  obtained  by 
the  real  gilding  and  elaborate  detail,  is  a  problem  yet  to  be 
accomplished.  With  the  help  of  the  Daguerreotype,  and  the 
lessons  of  color  given  by  the  later  Venetians,  we  ought  now 
to  be  able  to  accomplish  it,  more  especially  as  the  right  use  of 
gold  has  been  shown  us  by  the  greatest  master  of  effect  whom 
Venice  herself  produced,  Tintoret,  who  has  employed  it  with 
infinite  grace  on  the  steps  ascended  by  the  young  Madonna, 
in  his  large  picture  in  the  church  of  the  Madonna  dell'  Orto. 
Perugino  uses  it  also  with  singular  grace,  often  employing  it 
for  golden  light  on  distant  trees,  and  continually  on  the 
high  light  of  hair,  and  that  without  losing  relative  distances. 


176 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


The  great  group  of  Venetian  painters  who  brought  land- 
scape art,  for  that  time,  to  its  culminating  point,  have  left, 
as  we  have  already  seen,  little  that  is  instructive  in  architect- 
ural paintina:.     The  causes  of  this  I  cannot 

§29.  And  of  the  ^  .        ,  ^.  .  ,  .  ^. 

Venetians  gener-  Comprehend,  lor  neither  iitian  nor  lintoret  ap- 
pears  to  despise  anything  that  affords  them 
either  variety  of  form  or  of  color,  the  latter  especially  con- 
descending to  very  trivial  details, — as  in  the  magnificent 
carpet  painting  of  the  Doge  Mocenigo  ;  so  that  it  might 
have  been  expected  that  in  the  rich  colors  of  St.  Mark's,  and 
the  magnificent  and  fantastic  masses  of  the  Byzantine  pal* 
aces,  they  would  have  found  whereupon  to  dwell  with  de- 
lighted elaboration.  This  is,  however,  never  the  case,  and 
although  frequently  compelled  to  introduce  portions  of 
Venetian  locality  in  their  backgrounds,  such  portions  are 
always  treated  in  a  most  hasty  and  faithless  manner,  missing 
frequently  all  character  of  the  building,  and  never  advanced 
to  realization.  In  Titian's  picture  of  Faith,  the  view  of 
Venice  below  is  laid  in  so  rapidly  and  slightly,  the  houses 
all  leaning  this  way  and  that,  and  of  no  color,  the  sea  a  dead 
gray  green,  and  the  ship-sails  mere  dashes  of  the  brush,  that 
the  most  obscure  of  Turner's  Venices  would  look  substantial 
beside  it  ;  while  in  the  very  picture  of  Tintoret  in  which  he 
has  dwelt  so  elaborately  on  the  carpet,  he  has  substituted  a 
piece  of  ordinary  renaissance  composition  for  St.  Mark's, 
and  in  the  background  has  chosen  the  Sansovino  side  of  the 
Piazzetta,  treating  even  that  so  carelessly  as  to  lose  all  the 
proportion  and  beauty  of  its  design,  and  so  flimsily  that  the 
line  of  the  distant  sea  which  has  been  first  laid  in,  is  seen 
through  all  the  columns.  Evidences  of  magnificent  power  of 
course  exist  in  whatever  he  touches,  but  his  full  power  is 
never  turned  in  this  direction.  More  space  is  allowed  to  his 
architecture  by  Paul  Veronese,  but  it  is  still  entirely  sugges- 
tive, and  would  be  utterly  false  except  as  a  frame  or  back- 
ground for  figures.  The  same  may  be  said  with  respect  to 
RalTaelle  and  the  Roman  school. 

If,  however,  these  men  laid  architecture  little  under  contri- 
bution to  their  own  art,  they  made  their  own  art  a  glorious 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES, 


177 


gift  to  architecture,  and  the  walls  of  Venice,  which  before, 
I  believe,  had  received  color  only  in  arabesque  patterns,  were 
lighted  with  human  life  by  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoret,  and 
§  30.  Fresco  Veronese.  Of  the  works  of  Tintoret  and  Titian, 
Venetian  exteri-  i^othing  now,  I  belicve,  remains  ;  two  figures 
ors.  canaietto.  Qf  Giorgione's  are  still  traceable  on  the  Fon- 
daco  de'  Tedeschi,  one  of  which,  singularly  uninjured,  is 
seen  from  far  above  and  below  the  Rialto,  flaming  like  the 
reflection  of  a  sunset.  Two  figures  of  Veronese  were  also 
traceable  till  lately,  the  head  and  arms  of  one  still  remain, 
and  some  glorious  olive-branches  which  were  beside  the 
other  ;  the  figure  having  been  entirely  effaced  by  an  in- 
scription in  large  black  letters  on  a  whitewash  tablet  which 
we  owe  to  the  somewhat  inopportunely  expressed  enthusiasm 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  district  in  favor  of  their  new  pas- 
tor.* Judging,  however,  from  the  rate  at  which  destruction 
is  at  present  advancing,  and  seeing  that,  in  about  seven  or 
eight  years  more,  Venice  will  have  utterly  lost  every  external 
claim  to  interest,  except  that  which  attaches  to  the  group  of 
buildings  immediately  around  St.  Mark's  place,  and  to  the 
larger  churches,  it  may  be  conjectured  that  the  greater  part 
of  her  present  degradation  has  taken  place,  at  any  rate, 
within  the  last  forty  years.  Let  the  reader  with  such  scraps 
of  evidence  as  may  still  be  gleaned  from  under  the  stucco 
and  paint  of  the  Italian  committees  of  taste,  and  from 

*  The  inscription  is  to  the  following  effect, — a  pleasant  thing  to  see 
upon  the  walls,  were  it  but  more  innocently  placed  ; — 

CAMPO.  DI.  S.  MAURIZIO 


DIG 
CONSERVI  A  NOI. 
LUNGAMENTE 
LO  ZELANTIS.   E.  REVERENDIS 
D.  LUIGI,  PICCINI. 
NOSTRO 
NOVELLO  PIEVANO, 

gli  esultant. 
parrocchiani 

Vol.  L— 12 


178 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


among  the  drawing-room  innovations  of  English  and  Ger- 
man residents  restore  Venice  in  his  imagination  to  »some 
resemblance  of  what  she  must  have  been  before  her  fall. 
Let  him,  looking  from  Lido  or  Fusina,  replace  in  the  forest 
of  towers  those  of  the  hundred  and  sixty-six  churches  which 
the  French  threw  down  ;  let  him  sheet  her  walls  with  purple 
and  scarlet,  overlay  her  minarets  with  gold,*  cleanse  from 
their  pollution  those  choked  canals  which  are  now  the  drains 
of  hovels,  where  they  were  once  vestibules  of  palaces,  and 
fill  them  with  gilded  barges  and  bannered  ships  ;  finally,  let 
him  withdraw  from  this  scene,  already  so  brilliant,  such  sad- 
ness and  stain  as  had  been  set  upon  it  by  the  declining  ener- 
gies of  more  than  half  a  century,  and  he  will  see  Venice  as 
it  was  seen  by  Canaletto  ;  whose  miserable,  virtueless,  heart- 
less mechanism,  accepted  as  the  representation  of  such  vari- 
ous glory,  is,  both  in  its  existence  and  acceptance,  among 
the  most  striking  signs  of  the  lost  sensation  and  deadened 
intellect  of  the  nation  at  that  time  ;  a  numbness  and  dark- 
ness more  without  hope  than  that  of  the  grave  itself,  holding 
and  wearing  yet  the  sceptre  and  the  crown  like  the  corpses 
of  the  Etruscan  kings,  ready  to  sink  into  ashes  at  the  first 
unbarring  of  the  door  of  the  sepulchre. 

The  mannerism  of  Canaletto  is  the  most  degraded  that  I 
know  in  the  whole  range  of  art.  Professing  the  most  servile 
and  mindless  imitation,  it  imitates  nothing  but  the  blackness 
of  the  shadows  ;  it  gives  no  one  single  architectural  orna- 
ment, however  near,  so  much  form  as  might  enable  us  even 
to  guess  at  its  actual  one  ;  and  this  I  say  not  rashly,  for 
I  shall  prove  it  by  placing  portions  of  detail  accurately 
copied  from  Canaletto  side  by  side  with  engravings  from 
the  Daguerreotype  ;  it  gives  the  buildings  neither  their 

*  The  quantity  of  gold  with  which  the  decorations  of  Venice  were 
once  covered  corjd  not  now  be  traced  or  credited  without  reference  to 
the  authority  of  Gentile  Bellini.  The  greater  part  of  the  marble  mould- 
ings have  been  touched  with  it  in  lines  and  points,  the  minarets  of  St. 
Mark's,  and  all  the  florid  carving  of  the  arches  entirely  sheeted.  The 
Casa  d'Oro  retained  it  on  its  lions  until  the  recent  commencement  oi 
its  Restoration. 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES.  179 


architectural  beauty  nor  their  ancestral  dignity,  for  there  is 
no  texture  of  stone  nor  character  of  age  in  Canaletto's 
touch  ;  which  is  invariably  a  violent,  black,  sharp,  ruled  pen- 
manlike line,  as  far  removed  from  the  grace  of  nature 
as  from  her  faintness  and  transparency  ;  and  for  his  truth 
of  color,  let  the  single  fact  of  his  having  omitted  all  record, 
whatsoever,  of  the  frescoes  whose  wrecks  are  still  to  be  found 
at  least  on  one  half  of  the  unrestored  palaces,  and,  with  still 
less  excusableness,  all  record  of  the  magnificent  colored 
marbles  of  many  whose  greens  and  purples  are  still  un- 
dimmed  upon  the  Casa  Dario,  Gasa  Bianca  Capello,  and 
multitudes  besides,  speak  for  him  in  this  respect. 

Let  it  be  observed  that  I  find  no  fault  with  Canaletto,  for 
his  want  of  poetry,  of  feeling,  of  artistical  thoughtf ulness  in 
treatment,  or  of  the  various  other  virtues  which  he  does  not 
so  much  as  profess.  He  professes  nothing  but  colored 
Daguerreotypeism.  Let  us  have  it  :  most  precious  and  to 
be  revered  it  w^ould  be  :  let  us  have  fresco  where  fresco  was, 
and  that  copied  faithfully  ;  let  us  have  carving  where 
carving  is,  and  that  architecturally  true.  I  have  seen 
Daguerreotypes  in  which  every  figure  and  rosette,  and 
crack  and  stain,  and  fissure  are  given  on  a  scale  of  an  inch 
to  Canaletto's  three  feet.  What  excuse  is  there  to  be 
offered  for  his  omitting,  on  that  scale,  as  I  shall  hereafter 
show,  all  statement  of  such  ornament  whatever  ?  Among 
the  Flemish  schools,  exquisite  imitations  of  architecture  are 
found  constantly,  and  that  not  with  Canaletto's  vulgar, 
black  exaggeration  of  shadow,  but  in  the  most  pure  and 
^  silvery  and  luminous  grays.  T  have  little  pleasure  in  such 
pictures  ;  but  I  blame  not  those  who  have  more  ;  they  are 
what  they  profess  to  be,  and  they  are  wonderful  and  in- 
structive, and  often  graceful,  and  even  affecting,  but  Cana- 
letto possesses  no  virtue  except  that  of  dexterous  imitation 
of  commonplace  light  and  shade,  and  perhaps,  with  the 
exception  of  Salvator,  no  artist  has  ever  fettered  his  un- 
fortunate admirers  more  securely  from  all  healthy  or  vigorous 
perception  of  truth,  or  been  of  more  general  detriment  to  all 
subsequent  schools. 


180 


OENEBAL  APPLICATION  OF 


Neither,  however,  by  the  Flemings,  nor  by  any  other  of 
the  elder  schools,  was  the  effect  of  age  or  of  human  life 
upon  architecture  ever  adequately  expressed.  What  ruins 
§31.  Expression  they  drew  looked  as  if  broken  down  on  pur- 
age  on  aiSiTtect^  pose,  what  weeds  they  put  on  seemed  put  on  for 
ure  by  s.  Prout.  ornament.  Their  domestic  buildings  had  never 
any  domesticity,  the  people  looked  out  of  their  windows 
evidently  to  be  drawn,  or  came  into  the  streets  only  to 
stand  there  forever.  A  peculiar  studiousness  infected  all 
accident  ;  bricks  fell  out  methodically,  windows  opened  and 
shut  by  rule  ;  stones  were  chipped  at  regular  intervals ; 
everything  that  happened  seemed  to  have  been  expected 
before  ;  and  above  all,  the  street  had  been  washed  and  the 
houses  dusted  expressly  to  be  painted  in  their  best.  We 
owe  to  Prout,  I  believe,  the  first  perception,  and  certainly 
the  only  existing  expression  of  precisely  the  characters 
which  were  wanting  to  old  art,  of  that  feeling  which  results 
from  the  influence  among  the  noble  lines  of  architecture,  of 
the  rent  and  the  rust,  the  fissure,  the  lichen,  and  the 
weed,  and  from  the  writing  upon  the  pages  of  ancient 
walls  of  the  confused  hieroglyphics  of  human  history.  I 
suppose,  from  the  deserved  popularity  of  the  artist,  that  the 
strange  pleasure  which  I  find  myself  in  the  deciphering  of 
these  is  common  to  many  ;  the  feeling  has  been  rashly  and 
thoughtlessly  contemned  as  mere  love  of  the  picturesque-; 
there  is,  as  I  have  above  shown,  a  deeper  moral  in  it,  and  we 
owe  much,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  how  much,  to  the  artist 
by  whom  pre-eminently  it  has  been  excited.  For,  numerous 
as  have  been  his  imitators,  extended  as  his  influence,  and 
simple  as  his  means  and  manner,  there  has  yet  appeared 
nothing  at  all  to  equal  him  ;  there  is  no  stone  drawing,  no 
vitality  of  architecture  like  Prout's.  I  say  not  this  rashly,  I 
have  Mackenzie  in  my  eye  and  many  other  capital  imitators; 
and  I  have  carefully  reviewed  the  Architectural  work  of  the 
Academicians,  often  most  accurate  and  elaborate.  I  repeat, 
there  is  nothing  but  the  work  of  Prout  which  is  true,  living, 
or  right  in  its  general  impression,  and  nothing,  therefore,  so 
inexhaustibly  agreeable.    Faults  he  has,  manifold,  easily 


THE  FOREGOING  PBINCIPLES, 


181 


detected,  and  much  declaimed  against  by  second-rate 
artists  ;  but  his  excellence  no  one  has  ever  touched,  and  his 
lithographic  work,  (Sketches  in  Flanders  and  Germany,) 
which  was,  I  believe,  the  first  of  the  kind,  still  remains  the 
most  valuable  of  all,  numerous  and  elaborate  as  its  various 
successors  have  been.  The  second  series  (in  Italy  and 
Switzerland)  was  of  less  value,  the  drawings  seemed  more 
laborious,  and  had  less  of  the  life  of  the  original  sketches, 
being  also  for  the  most  part  of  subjects  less  adapted  for  the 
development  of  the  artist's  peculiar  powers  ;  but  both  are 
fine,  and  the  Brussels,  Louvain,  Cologne,  and  Nuremberg, 
subjects  of  the  one,  together  with  the  Tours,  Amboise, 
Geneva,  and  Sion,  of  the  other,  exhibit  substantial  qualities 
of  stone  and  wood  drawing,  together  with  an  ideal  apprecia- 
tion of  the  present  active  vital  being  of  the  cities,  such  as 
nothing  else  has  ever  approached.  Their  value  is  much  in- 
creased by  the  circumstance  of  their  being  drawn  by  the 
artist's  own  hand  upon  the  stone,  and  by  the  consequent 
manly  recklessness  of  subordinate  parts,  (in  works  of  this 
kind,  be  it  remembered,  much  is  subordinate,)  which  is  of  all 
characters  of  execution  the  most  refreshing.  Note  the 
scrawled  middle  tint  of  the  wall  behind  the  Gothic  well  at 
Ratisbonne,  and  compare  this  manly  piece  of  work  with  the 
wretched  smoothness  of  recent  lithography.  Let  it  not  be 
thought  that  there  is  any  inconsistency  between  what  I  say 
here  and  what  I  have  said  respecting  finish.  This  piece  of 
dead  wall  is  as  much  finished  in  relation  to  function  as  a 
wall  of  Ghirlandajo's  or  Leonardo's  in  relation  to  theirs,  and 
the  refreshing  quality  is  the  same  in  both,  and  manifest  in 
all  great  masters,  without  exception,  that  of  the  utter  regard- 
lessness  of  the  means  so  that  their  end  be  reached.  The 
same  kind  of  scrawling  occurs  often  in  the  shade  of 
Raffaelle. 

It  is  not  only,  however,  by  his  peculiar  stone  touch  nor 
perception  of  human  character  that  he  is  distinguished.  He 
^  „^     .  is  the  most  dexterous  of  all  our  artists  in  a  cer- 

§  32.    Hia  excel-        .      i  .     .      «  .  .  -vt  i 

lent  composition  tain  Kinci  oi  Composition.    JNo  one  can  place 

and  color.  ^  tit*  rr?  t    •  i  • 

figures  like  him,  except  lurner.    It  is  one  thing 


182 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


to  know  where  a  piece  of  blue  or  white  is  wanted,  and  an- 
other to  make  the  wearer  of  the  blue  apron  or  white  cap 
come  there,  and  not  look  as  if  it  were  against  her  will.  Prout's 
streets  are  the  only  streets  that  are  accidentally  crowded,  his 
markets  are  the  only  markets  where  one  feels  inclined  to  get 
out  of  the  way.  With  others  we  feel  the  figures  so  right 
where  they  are,  that  we  have  no  expectation  of  their  going 
anywhere  else,  and  approve  of  the  position  of  the  man  with 
the  wheelbarrow,  without  the  slightest  fear  of  his  running 
against  our  legs.  One  other  merit  he  has,  far  less  generally 
acknowledged  than  it  should  be  :  he  is  among  our  most  sunny 
and  substantial  colorists.  Much  conventional  color  occurs  in 
his  inferior  pictures  (for  he  is  very  unequal)  and  some  in  all  ; 
but  portions  are  always  to  be  found  of  quality  so  luminous 
and  pure  that  I  have  found  these  works  the  only  ones  capa- 
ble of  bearing  juxtaposition  with  Turner  and  Hunt,  who  in- 
variably destroy  everything  else  that  comes  within  range  of 
them.  His  most  beautiful  tones  occur  in  those  drawings  in 
which  there  is  prevalent  and  powerful  warm  gray,  his  most 
failing  ones  in  those  of  sandy  red.  On  his  deficiencies  I 
shall  not  insist,  because  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  how  far  it 
is  possible  for  him  to  avoid  them.  We  have  never  seen  the 
reconciliation  of  the  peculiar  characters  he  has  obtained  with 
the  accurate  following  out  of  architectural  detail.  With  his 
present  modes  of  execution,  farther  fidelity  is  impossible,  nor 
has  any  other  mode  of  execution  yet  obtained  the  same  re- 
sults ;  and  though  much  is  unaccomplished  by  him  in  certain 
subjects,  and  something  of  over-mannerism  may  be  traced  in 
his  treatment  of  others,  as  especially  in  his  mode  of  express- 
ing the  decorative  parts  of  Greek  or  Roman  architecture,  yet 
in  his  own  peculiar  Gothic  territory,  where  the  spirit  of  the 
subject  itself  is  somewhat  rude  and  grotesque,  his  abstract  of 
decoration  has  more  of  the  spirit  of  the  reality  than  far  more 
laborious  imitation.  The  spirit  of  the  Flemish  Hotel  de  Ville 
and  decorated  street  architecture  has  never  been  even  in  the 
slightest  degree  felt  or  conveyed  except  by  him,  and  by  him, 
to  my  mind,  faultlessly  and  absolutely  ;  and  though  his  in- 
terpretation of  architecture  that  contains  more  refined  art  in 


THE  FOREGOING  PIUNGIPLE8, 


183 


its  details  is  far  less  satisfactory,  still  it  is  impossible,  while 
walking  on  his  favorite  angle  of  the  Piazzetta  at  Venice, 
either  to  think  of  any  other  artist  than  Prout  or  not  to  think 
of  hirru 

Many  other  dexterous  and  agreeable  architectural  artists 
Doo       ^        we  have  of  various  deo;rees  of  merit,  but  of  all 

§33.  Modern  ^  ^  ^ 

architectural  of  whom,  it  may  be  generally  said,  that  they 
ally.  G.  Catter-  draw  hats,  faccs,  cloaks,  and  caps  much  better 
than  Prout,  but  figures  not  so  well ;  that  they 
draw  walls  and  windows  but  not  cities,  mouldings  and  but- 
tresses but  not  cathedrals.  Joseph  Nash's  work  on  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  middle  ages  is,  however,  valuable,  and  I  sup- 
pose that  Haghe's  works  may  be  depended  on  for  fidelity. 
But  it  appears  very  strange  that  a  workman  capable  of  pro- 
ducing the  clever  drawings  he  has,  from  time  to  time,  sent  to 
the  New  Society  of  Painters  in  Water  Colors,  should  publish 
lithographs  so  conventional,  forced,  and  lifeless. 

It  is  not  without  hesitation,  that  I  mention  a  name  respect- 
ing which  the  reader  may  already  have  been  surprised  at  my 
silence,  that  of  G.  Cattermole.  There  are  signs  in  his  works 
of  very  peculiar  gifts,  and  perhaps  also  of  powerful  genius  ; 
their  deficiencies  I  should  willingly  attribute  to  the  advice  of 
ill-judging  friends,  and  to  the  applause  of  a  public  satisfied 
with  shallow  efforts,  if  brilliant  ;  yet  I  cannot  but  think  it  one 
necessary  characteristic  of  all  true  genius  to  be  misled  by  no 
such  false  fires.  The  Antiquarian  feeling  of  Cattermole  is  pure, 
earnest,  and  natural  ;  and  I  think  his  imagination  originally 
vigorous,  certainly  his  fancy,  his  grasp  of  momentary  passion 
considerable,  his  sense  of  action  in  the  human  body  vivid  and 
ready.  But  no  original  talent,  however  brilliant,  can  sustain 
its  energy  when  the  demands  upon  it  are  constant,  and  all 
legitimate  support  and  food  withdrawn.  I  do  not  recollect 
in  any,  even  of  the  most  important  of  Cattermole's  works,  so 
much  as  a  fold  of  drapery  studied  out  from  nature.  Violent 
conventionalism  of  light  and  shade,  sketchy  forms  continu- 
ally less  and  less  developed,  the  walls  and  the  faces  drawn 
with  the  same  stucco  color,  alike  opaque,  and  all  the  shades 
on  flesh,  dress,  or  stone,  laid  in  with  the  same  arbitrary 


184 


GENEBAL  APPLICATION  OF 


brown,  forever  tell  the  same  tale  of  a  mind  wasting  its 
strength  and  substance  in  the  production  of  emptiness,  and 
seeking,  by  more  and  more  blindly  hazarded  handling,  to 
conceal  the  weakness  which  the  attempt  at  finish  would  be- 
tray. 

This  tendency  of  late,  has  been  painfully  visible  in  his 
architecture.  Some  drawings  made  several  years  ago  for  an 
annual  illustrative  of  Scott's  works  were  for  the  most  part 
pure  and  finely  felt — (though  irrelevant  to  our  present  sub- 
ject, a  fall  of  the  Clyde  should  be  noticed,  admirable  for 
breadth  and  grace  of  foliage,  and  for  the  bold  sweeping  of 
the  water,  and  another  subject  of  which  I  regret  that  I  can 
only  judge  by  the  engraving  ;  Glendearg  at  twilight — the 
monk  Eustace  chased  by  Christie  of  the  Clint  Hill — which  I 
think  must  have  been  one  of  the  sweetest  pieces  of  simple 
Border  hill  feeling  ever  painted) — and  about  that  time  his 
architecture,  though  always  conventionally  brown  in  the 
shadows,  was  generally  well  drawn,  and  always  powerfully 
conceived. 

Since  then,  he  has  been  tending  gradually  through  exag- 
geration to  caricature,  and  vainly  endeavoring  to  attain  by 
inordinate  bulk  of  decorated  parts,  that  dignity  which  is  only 
to  be  reached  by  purity  of  proportion  and  majesty  of  line. 

It  has  pained  me  deeply,  to  see  an  artist  of  so  great  orig- 
inal power  indulging  in  childish  f  antasticism  and  exaggeration, 
and  substituting  for  the  serious  and  subdued  work  of  legiti- 
§  34.  The  evil  in  mate  imagination,  monster  machicolations  and 
poinrSfview^^^  colossal  cusps  and  crockets.  While  there  is  so 
misapplied  in-  much  beautiful  architecture  daily  in  process  of 

vention  in  archi-  ^  .  . 

tecturai  subject,  destruction  around  us,  I  cannot  but  think  it  trea- 
son to  imagine  anything  ;  at  least,  if  we  must  have  composi- 
tion, let  the  design  of  the  artist  be  such  as  the  architect  would 
applaud.  But  it  is  surely  very  grievous,  that  while  our  idle 
artists  are  helping  their  vain  inventions  by  the  fall  of  sponges 
on  soiled  paper,  glorious  buildings  with  the  whole  intellect 
and  history  of  centuries  concentrated  in  them,  are  suffered 
to  fall  into  unrecorded  ruin.  A  day  does  not  now  pass  in 
Italy  without  the  destruction  of  some  mighty  monument  ; 


TEE  FOBE GOING  PBINGIPLES. 


185 


the  streets  of  all  her  cities  echo  to  the  hammer,  half  of  her 
fair  buildings  lie  in  separate  stones  about  the  places  of  their 
foundation  ;  would  not  time  be  better  spent  in  telling  us  the 
truth  about  these  perishing  remnants  of  majestic  thought, 
than  in  perpetuating  the  ill-digested  fancies  of  idle  hours  ? 
It  is,  I  repeat,  treason  to  the  cause  of  art  for  any  man  to  in- 
vent, unless  he  invents  something  better  than  has  been  in- 
vented before,  or  something  differing  in  kind.  There  is  room 
enough  for  invention  in  the  pictorial  treatment  of  what  ex- 
ists. There  is  no  more  honorable  exhibition  of  imaginative 
power,  than  in  the  selection  of  such  place,  choice  of  such 
treatment,  introduction  of  such  incident,  as  may  prockice  a 
noble  picture  without  deviation  from  one  line  of  the  actual 
truth  ;  and  such  I  believe  to  be,  indeed,  in  the  end  the  most 
advantageous,  as  well  as  the  most  modest  direction  of  the 
invention,  for  I  recollect  no  single  instance  of  architectural 
composition  by  any  men  except  such  as  Leonardo  or  Veron- 
ese, who  could  design  their  architecture  thoroughly  before 
they  painted  it,  which  has  not  a  look  of  inanity  and  absurdity. 
The  best  landscapes  and  the  best  architectural  studies  have 
been  views  ;  and  I  would  have  the  artist  take  shame  to  him- 
self in  the  exact  degree  in  which  he  finds  himself  obliged  in 
the  production  of  his  picture  to  lose  any,  even  of  the  small- 
est parts  or  most  trivial  hues  which  bear  a  part  in  the  great 
impression  made  by  the  reality.  The  difference  between  the 
drawing  of  the  architect  and  artist  *  ought  never  to  be,  as  it 
now  commonly  is,  the  difference  between  lifeless  formality 
and  witless  license  ;  it  ought  to  be  between  giving  the  mere 
lines  and  measures  of  a  building,  and  giving  those  lines  and 
measures  with  the  impression  and  soul  of  it  besides.  All 
artists  should  be  ashamed  of  themselves  when  they  find  they 
have  not  the  power  of  being  true  ;  the  right  wit  of  drawing 
is  like  the  right  wit  of  conversation,  not  hyperbole,  not  vio- 
lence, not  frivolity,  only  well  expressed,  laconic  truth. 

Among  the  members  of  the  Academy,  we  have  at  present 

*  Indeed  there  should  be  no  such  difference  at  all.  Every  architect 
ought  to  be  an  artist ;  every  very  great  artist  is  necessarily  an  architect. 


186 


GENEMAL  APPLICATION  OF 


only  one  professedly  architectural  draughtsman  of  note,  David 
Roberts,  whose  reputation  is  probably  farther  extended  on 
§  35.  Works  of  the  Continent  than  that  of  any  other  of  our  ar- 
their^fideii^^Sd  tists,  except  Laudseer.  I  am  not  certain,  how- 
ever,  that  I  have  any  reason  to  congratulate  either 
of  my  countrymen  upon  this  their  European  estimation  ;  for 
I  think  it  exceedingly  probable  that  in  both  instances  it  is 
exclusively  based  on  their  defects  ;  and  in  the  case  of  Mr. 
Roberts,  in  particular,  there  has  of  late  appeared  more  ground 
for  it  than  is  altogether  desirable  in  a  smoothness  and  over- 
finish  of  texture  which  bears  dangerous  fellowship  with  the 
work^f  our  Gallic  neighbors. 

The  fidelity  of  intention  and  honesty  of  system  of  Roberts 
have,  however,  always  been  meritorious  ;  his  drawing  of  archi- 
tecture is  dependent  on  no  unintelligible  lines,  or  blots,  or 
substituted  types  :  the  main  lines  of  the  real  design  are  al- 
ways there,  and  its  hollowness  and  undercuttings  given  with 
exquisite  feeling  ;  his  sense  of  solidity  of  form  is  very  pecu- 
liar, leading  him  to  dwell  with  great  delight  on  the  round- 
ings  of  edges  and  angles  ;  his  execution  is  dexterous  and 
delicate,  singularly  so  in  oil,  and  his  sense  of  chiaroscuro  re- 
fined. But  he  has  never  done  himself  justice,  and  suffers  his 
pictures  to  fall  below  the  rank  they  should  assume,  by  the 
presence  of  several  marring  characters,  which  I  shall  name, 
because  it  is  perfectly  in  his  power  to  avoid  them.  In  look- 
ing over  the  valuable  series  of  drawing  of  the  Holy  Land, 
which  we  owe  to  Mr.  Roberts,  we  cannot  but  be  amazed  to 
find  how  frequently  it  has  happenjed  that  there  was  something 
very  white  immediately  in  the  foreground,  and  something  very 
black  exactly  behind  it.  The  same  thing  happens  perpetu- 
ally with  Mr.  Roberts's  pictures  ;  a  white  column  is  always 
coming  out  of  a  blue  mist,  or  a  white  stone  out  of  a  green 
pool,  or  a  white  monument  out  of  a  brown  recess,  and  the 
artifice  is  not  always  concealed  with  dexterity.  This  is  un- 
worthy of  so  skilful  a  composer,  and  it  has  destroyed  the  im- 
pressiveness  as  well  as  the  color  of  some  of  his  finest  works. 
It  shows  a  poverty  of  conception,  which  appears  to  me  to 
arise  from  a  deficient  habit  of  study.    It  will  be  remembered 


THE  FOBEGOING  PRINCIPLES, 


187 


that  of  the  sketches  for  this  work,  several  times  exhibited  in 
London,  every  one  was  executed  in  the  same  manner,  and 
with  about  the  same  degree  of  completion  :  being  all  of  them 
accurate  records  of  the  main  architectural  lines,  the  shapes  of 
the  shadows,  and  the  remnants  of  artificial  color,  obtained,  by 
means  of  the  same  grays,  throughout,  and  of  the  same  yel- 
low  (a  singularly  false  and  cold  though  convenient  color) 
touched  upon  the  lights.  As  far  as  they  went,  nothing  could 
be  more  valuable  than  these  sketches,  and  the  public,  glanc- 
ing rapidly  at  their  general  and  graceful  effects,  could  hardly 
form  anything  like  an  estimate  of  the  endurance  and  deter- 
mination which  must  have  been  necessary  in  such  a  climate 
to  obtain  records  so  patient,  entire,  and  clear,  of  details  so 
multitudinous  as  (especially)  the  hieroglyphics  of  the  Egyp- 
tian temples  ;  an  endurance  which  perhaps  only  artists  can 
estimate,  and  for  which  we  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Roberts  most  difficult  to  discharge.  But  if  these  sketches 
were  all  that  the  artist  brought  home,  whatever  value  is  to  be 
attached  to  them  as  statements  of  fact,  they  are  altogether 
insufficient  for  the  producing  of  pictures.  I  saw  among 
them  no  single  instance  of  a  downright  study  ;  of  a  study  in 
which  the  real  hues  and  shades  of  sky  and  earth  had  been 
honestly  realized  or  attempted  ;  nor  were  there,  on  the  other 
hand,  any  of  those  invaluable-blotted-five-minutes  works 
which  record  the  unity  of  some  single  and  magnificent  im- 
pressions. Hence  the  pictures  which  have  been  painted  from 
these  sketches  have  been  as  much  alike  in  their  want  of  im- 
pressiveness  as  the  sketches  themselves,  and  have  never  borne 
the  living  aspect  of  the  Egyptian  light  ;  it  has  always  been 
impossible  to  say  whether  the  red  in  them  (not  a  pleasant 
one)  was  meant  for  hot  sunshine  or  for  red  sandstone — their 
power  has  been  farther  destroyed  by  the  necessity  the  artist 
seems  to  feel  himself  under  of  eking  out  their  effect  by  points 
of  bright  foreground  color,  and  thus  we  have  been  encumber- 
ed with  caftans,  pipes,  scymetars,  and  black  hair,  when  all  that 
we  wanted  was  a  lizard,  or  an  ibis.  It  is  perhaps  owing  to 
this  want  of  earnestness  in  study  rather  than  to  deficiency  of 
perception,  that  the  coloring  of  this  artist  is  commonly  un- 


188 


OENEBAL  APPLICATION-  OF 


true.  Some  time  ago  when  he  was  painting  Spanish  subjects, 
his  habit  was  to  bring  out  his  whites  in  relief  from  transpar- 
ent bituminous  browns,  which  though  not  exactly  right  in 
color,  were  at  any  rate  warm  and  agreeable  ;  but  of  late  his 
color  has  become  cold,  waxy,  and  opaque,  and  in  his  deep 
shades  he  sometimes  permits  himself  the  use  of  a  violent  black 
which  is  altogether  unjustifiable.  A  picture  of  Roslin  Chapel 
exhibited  in  1844,  showed  this  defect  in  the  recess  to  which 
the  stairs  descend,  in  an  extravagant  degree  ;  and  another 
exhibited  in  the  British  Institution,  instead  of  showing  the 
exquisite  crumbling  and  lichenous  texture  of  the  Roslin  stone, 
was  polished  to  as  vapid  smoothness  as  ever  French  historical 
picture.  The  general  feebleness  of  the  effect  is  increased  by 
the  insertion  of  the  figures  as  violent  pieces  of  local  color  un- 
affected by  the  light  and  unblended  with  the  hues  around 
them,  and  bearing  evidence  of  having  been  painted  from 
models  or  draperies  in  the  dead  light  of  a  room  instead  of 
sunshine.  On  these  deficiencies  I  should  not  have  remarked, 
but  that  by  honest  and  determined  painting  from  and  of  nat- 
ure, it  is  perfectly  in  the  power  of  the  artist  to  supply  them  ; 
and  it  is  bitterly  to  be  regretted  that  the  accuracy  and  ele- 
gance of  his  work  should  not  be  aided  by  that  genuineness  of 
hue  and  effect  which  can  only  be  given  by  the  uncompromis- 
ing effort  to  paint  not  a  fine  picture  but  an  impressive  and 
known  verity. 

The  two  artists  whose  works  it  remains  for  us  to  review, 
are  men  who  have  presented  us  with  examples  of  the  treat- 
ment of  every  kind  of  subject,  and  among  the  rest  with  por- 
tions of  architecture  which  the  best  of  our  exclusively  archi- 
tectural draughtsmen  could  not  excel. 

The  frequent  references  made  to  the  works  of  Clarkson 
Stanfield  throughout  the  subsequent  pages  render  it  less 
necessary  for  me  to  speak  of  him  here  at  any  length.  He  is 
the  leader  of  the  English  Realists,  and  perhaps  among  the 
^,  ,        more  remarkable  of  his  characteristics  is  the 

§  36.   Clarkson  .  i  •  i    i  • 

Stanfield.  look  of  common-scnsc  and  rationality  which  his 

compositions  will  always  bear  when  opposed  to  any  kind  of 
affectation.    He  appears  to  think  of  no  other  artist.  What 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES.  189 


he  has  learned,  has  been  from  his  own  acquaintance  with  and 
affection  for  the  steep  hills  and  the  deep  sea  ;  and  his  modes 
of  treatment  are  alike  removed  from  sketchiness  or  incom- 
pletion,  and  from  exaggeration  or  effort.  The  somewhat 
over-prosaic  tone  of  his  subjects  is  rather  a  condescension  to 
what  he  supposes  to  be  public  feeling,  than  a  sign  of  want 
of  feeling  in  himself  ;  for  in  some  of  his  sketches  from  nature 
or  from  fancy,  I  have  seen  powers  and  perceptions  manifested 
of  a  far  higher  order  than  any  that  are  traceable  in  his  Acad- 
emy works,  powers  which  I  think  him  much  to  be  blamed  for 
checking.  The  portion  of  his  pictures  usually  most  defective 
in  this  respect  is  the  sky,  which  is  apt  to  be  cold  and  unin- 
ventive,  always  well  drawn,  but  with  a  kind  of  hesitation  in 
the  clouds  whether  it  is  to  be  fair  or  foul  weather  ;  they  hav- 
ing neither  the  joyfulness  of  rest,  nor  the  majesty  of  storm. 
Their  color  is  apt  also  to  verge  on  a  morbid  purple,  as  was 
eminently  the  case  in  the  large  picture  of  the  wreck  on  the 
coast  of  Holland  exhibited  in  1844,  a  work  in  which  both  his 
powers  and  faults  were  prominently  manifested,  the  picture 
being  full  of  good  painting,  but  wanting  in  its  entire  appeal. 
There  was  no  feeling  of  wreck  about  it  ;  and,  but  for  the 
damage  about  her  bowsprit,  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  a  landsman  to  say  whether  the  hull  was  meant  for  a  wreck 
or  a  guardship.  Nevertheless,  it  is  always  to  be  recollected, 
that  in  subjects  of  this  kind  it  is  probable  that  much  escapes 
us  in  consequence  of  our  want  of  knowledge,  and  that  to  the 
eye  of  the  seaman  much  may  be  of  interest  and  value  which 
to  us  appears  cold.  At  all  events,  this  healthy  and  rational 
regard  of  things  is  incomparably  preferable  to  the  dramatic 
absurdities  which  weaker  artists  commit  in  matters  marine  ; 
and  from  copper-colored  sunsets  on  green  waves  sixty  feet 
high,  with  cauliflower  breakers,  and  ninepin  rocks  ;  from 
drowning  on  planks,  and  starving  on  rafts,  and  lying  naked 
on  beaches,  it  is  really  refreshing  to  turn  to  a  surge  of  Stan- 
field's  true  salt,  serviceable,  unsentimental  sea.  It  would  be 
well,  however,  if  he  would  sometimes  take  a  higher  flight. 
The  castle  of  Ischia  gave  him  a  grand  subject,  and  a  little 
more  invention  in  the  sky,  a  little  less  muddiness  in  the  rocks, 


190 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


and  a  little  more  savageness  in  the  sea,  would  have  made  it 
an  impressive  picture  ;  it  just  misses  the  sublime,  yet  is  a  fine 
work,  and  better  engraved  than  usual  by  the  Art  Union. 

One  fault  we  cannot  but  venture  to  find,  even  in  our  own 
extreme  ignorance,  with  Mr.  Stanfield's  boats  ;  they  never 
look  weather-beaten.  There  is  something  peculiarly  precious 
in  the  rusty,  dusty,  tar-trickled,  fishy,  phosphorescent  brown 
of  an  old  boat,  and  when  this  has  just  dipped  under  a  wave 
and  rises  to  the  sunshine  it  is  enough  to  drive  Giorgione  to 
despair.  I  have  never  seen  any  effort  at  this  by  Stanfield  ; 
his  boats  always  look  new  painted  and  clean  ;  witness  espe- 
cally  the  one  before  the  ship  in  the  wreck  picture  above 
noticed  :  and  there  is  some  such  absence  of  a  riofht  sense  of 
color  in  other  portions  of  his  subject  ;  even  his  fishermen 
have  always  clean  jackets  and  unsoiled  caps,  and  his  very 
rocks  are  lichenless.  And,  by  the  way,  this  ought  to  be 
noted  respecting  modern  painters  in  general,  that  they  have 
not  a  proper  sense  of  the  value  of  dirt  ;  cottage  children 
never  appear  but  in  fresh  got-up  caps  and  aprons,  and  white- 
handed  beggars  excite  compassion  in  unexceptionable  rags. 
In  reality,  almost  all  the  colors  of  things  associated  with  hu- 
man life  derive  something  of  their  expression  and  value  from 
the  tones  of  impurity,  and  so  enhance  the  value  of  the  en- 
tirely pure  tints  of  nature  herself.  Of  Stanfield's  rock  and 
mountain  drawing  enough  will  be  said  hereafter.  His  foliage 
is  inferior  ;  his  architecture  admirably  drawn,  but  commonly 
wanting  in  color.  His  picture  of  the  Doge's  palace  at  Venice 
was  quite  clay-cold  and  untrue.  Of  late  he  has  shown  a  mar- 
vellous predilection  for  the  realization,  even  to  actually  re- 
lieved texture,  of  old  worm-eaten  wood  ;  we  trust  he  will  not 
allow  such  fancies  to  carry  him  too  far. 

The  name  I  have  last  to  mention  is  that  of  J.  M.  W.  Turner. 
I  do  not  intend  to  speak  of  this  artist  at  present  in  general 
terms,  because  my  constant  practice  throughout  this  work  is 
to  say,  when  I  speak  of  an  artist  at  all,  the  very  truth  of  what 
I  believe  and  feel  respecting  him  ;  and  the  truth  of  what  I 
believe  and  feel  respecting  Turner  would  appear  in  this  place, 
unsupported  by  any  proof,  mere  rhapsody.    I  shall  therefore 


TEE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES. 


191 


here  confine  myself  to  a  rapid  glance  at  the  relations  of  his 
past  and  present  works,  and  to  some  notice  of  what  he  has 
37   J  M  w   -^^^^^^      accomplishing  :  the  greater  part  of  the 
Turner.*  Force  subscqucnt  chapters  will  be  exclusively  devoted 

ot  national  feel-  pit 

ing  in  all  great  to  the  examination  oi  the  new  iields  over 
painters.  which  he  has  extended  the  range  of  landscape  art. 

It  is  a  fact  more  universally  acknowledged  than  enforced 
or  acted  upon,  that  all  great  painters,  of  whatever  school, 
have  been  great  only  in  their  rendering  of  what  they  had 
seen  and  felt  from  early  childhood  ;  and  that  the  greatest 
among  them  have  been  the  most  frank  in  acknowledging 
this  their  inability  to  treat  anything  successfully  but  that 
with  which  they  had  been  familar.  The  Madonna  of  Raf- 
faelle  was  born  on  the  Urbino  mountains,  Ghirlandajo's  is  a 
Florentine,  Bellini's  a  Venetian  ;  there  is  not  the  slightest 
effort  on  the  part  of  any  one  of  these  great  men  to  paint  her 
as  a  Jewess.  It  is  not  the  place  here  to  insist  farther  on  a 
point  so  simple  and  so  universally  demonstrable.  Expres- 
sion, character,  types  of  countenance,  costume,  color,  and 
accessories  are  with  all  great  painters  whatsoever  those  of 
their  native  land,  and  that  frankly  and  entirely,  without  the 
slightest  attempt  at  modification  ;  and  I  assert  fearlessly 
that  it  is  impossible  that  it  should  ever  be  otherwise,  and 
that  no  man  ever  painted  or  ever  will  paint  well  anything 
but  what  he  has  early  and  long  seen,  early  and  long  felt,  and 
early  and  long  loved.  How  far  it  is  possible  for  the  mind  of 
one  nation  or  generation  to  be  healthily  modified  and  taught 
by  the  w^ork  of  another,  I  presume  not  to  determine  ;  but  it 
depends  upon  whether  the  energy  of  the  mind  which  receives 
the  instruction  be  sufficient,  while  it  takes  out  of  what  it 
feeds  upon  that  which  is  universal  and  common  to  all  nature, 
to  resist  all  warping  from  national  or  temporary  peculiarities. 
Nino  Pisano  got  nothing  but  good,  the  modern  French 
nothing  but  evil,  from  the  study  of  the  antique  ;  but  Nino 
Pisano  had  a  God  and  a  character.  All  artists  who  have  at- 
tempted to  assume,  or  in  their  weakness  have  been  affected 
by,  the  national  peculiarities  of  other  times  and  countries, 
have  instantly,  whatever  their  original  power,  fallen  to  third- 


192 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


rate  rank,  or  fallen  altogether,  and  have  invariably  lost  their 
birthright  and  blessing,  lost  their  power  over  the  human 
heart,  lost  all  capability  of  teaching  or  benefiting  others. 
Compare  the  hybrid  classification  of  Wilson  with  the  rich 
English  purity  of  Gainsborough  ;  compare  the  recent  ex- 
hibition of  middle-age  cartoons  for  the  Houses  of  Parliament 
with  the  works  of  Hogarth  ;  compare  the  sickly  modern  Ger- 
man imitations  of  the  great  Italians  with  Albert  Durer  and 
Holbein  ;  compare  the  vile  classicality  of  Oanova  and  the 
modern  Italians  with  Mino  da  Fiesole,  Luca  della  Robbia, 
and  Andrea  del  Yerrocchio.  The  manner  of  Nicolo  Poussin 
is  said  to  be  Greek — it  may  be  so  ;  this  only  I  know,  that  it 
is  heartless  and  profitless.  The  severity  of  the  rule,  how- 
ever, extends  not  in  full  force  to  the  nationality,  but  only  to 
the  visibility  of  things  ;  for  it  is  very  possible  for  an  artist 
of  powerful  mind  to  throw  himself  well  into  the  feeling  of 
foreio^n  nations  of  his  own  time.  Thus  John  Lewis  has  been 
eminently  successful  in  his  seizing  of  Spanish  character.  Yet 
it  may  be  doubted  if  the  seizure  be  such  as  Spaniards  them- 
selves would  acknowledge  ;  it  is  probably  of  the  habits  of 
the  people  more  than  their  hearts  ;  continued  efforts  of  this 
kind,  especially  if  their  subjects  be  varied,  assuredly  end  in 
failure  ;  Lewis,  who  seemed  so  eminently  penetrative  in 
Spain,  sent  nothing  from  Italy  but  complexions  and  cos- 
tumes, and  I  expect  no  good  from  his  stay  in  Egypt.  Eng- 
lish artists  are  usually  entirely  ruined  by  residence  in  Italy, 
but  for  this  there  are  collateral  causes  which  it  is  not  here 
the  place  to  examine.  Be  this  as  it  may,  and  whatever  suc- 
cess may  be  attained  in  pictures  of  slight  and  unpretending 
aim,  of  genre,  as  they  are  called,  in  the  rendering  of  foreign 
character,  of  this  I  am  certain,  that  whatever  is  to  be  truly 
great  and  affecting  must  have  on  it  the  strong  stamp  of  the 
native  land  ;  not  a  law  this,  but  a  necessity,  from  the  intense 
hold  on  their  country  of  the  affections  of  all  truly  great  men  ; 
all  classicality,  all  middle-age  patent  reviving,  is  utterly  vain 
and  absurd ;  if  we  are  now  to  do  anything  great,  good, 
awful,  religious,  it  must  be  got  out  of  our  own  little  island, 
and  out  of  this  year  1846,  railroads  and  all :  if  a  British 


THE  FOREQOING  PEINGIPLES, 


193 


painter,  I  say  this  in  earnest  seriousness,  cannot  make  his- 
torical characters  out  of  tlie  British  House  of  Peers,  he  can- 
not paint  history  ;  and  if  he  cannot  make  a  Madonna  of  a 
British  girl  of  the  nineteenth  century,  he  cannot  paint  one 
at  all. 

The  rule,  of  course,  holds  in  landscape  ;  yet  so  far  less 
authoritatively,  that  the  material  nature  of  all  countries  and 
times  is  in  many  points  actually,  and  in  all,  in  principle,  the 
„       ^  same  :  so  that  feelino^s  educated  in  Cumberland, 

§  38.    Influence  '         i    .  ,  •     o  • 

of  this  feeling  on  may  find  their  food  in  bwitzeriand,  and  impres- 
Landscape  sub-  sions  first  received  among  the  rocks  of  Corn- 
wall,  be  recalled  upon  the  precipices  of  Genoa. 
Add  to  this  actual  sameness,  the  power  of  every  great  mind 
to  possess  itself  of  the  spirit  of  things  once  presented  to  it, 
and  it  is  evident,  that  little  limitation  can  be  set  to  the  land- 
scape painter  as  to  the  choice  of  his  field  ;  and  that  the  law 
of  nationality  will  hold  with  him  only  so  far  as  a  certain 
joyfulness  and  completion  will  be  by  preference  found  in 
those  parts  of  his  subject  which  remind  him  of  his  own  land. 
But  if  he  attempt  to  impress  on  his  landscapes  any  other 
spirit  than  that  he  has  felt,  and  to  make  them  landscapes  of 
other  times,  it  is  all  over  with  him,  at  least,  in  the  degree  in 
which  such  reflected  moonshine  takes  place  of  the  genuine 
light  of  the  present  day. 

The  reader  will  at  once  perceive  how  much  trouble  this 
simple  principle  will  save  both  the  painter  and  the  critic  ;  it 
at  once  sets  aside  the  whole  school  of  common  composition, 
and  exonerates  us  from  the  labor  of  minutely  examining  any 
landscape  which  has  nymphs  or  philosophers  in  it. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  us  to  illustrate  this  principle  by 
any  reference  to  the  works  of  early  landscape  painters,  as  I 
suppose  it  is  universally  acknowledged  with  respect  to  them  ; 
Titian  being  the  most  remarkable  instance  of  the  influence 
of  the  native  air  on  a  strong  mind,  and  Claude,  of  that  of 
the  classical  poison  on  a  weak  one  ;  but  it  is  very  necessary 
to  keep  it  in  mind  in  reviewing  the  works  of  our  great  mod- 
ern landscape  painter. 

I  do  not  know  in  what  district  of  England  Turner  first  or 
Vol.  I.— 13 


194 


GENEBAL  APPLICATION  OF 


longest  studied,  but  the  scenery  whose  influence  I  can  trace 
most  definitely  throughout  his  works,  varied  as  they  are,  is 
§39.  Its  pecu-  ^^^^  Yorkshire.  -Of  all  his  drawings,  I  think, 
liar   manifesta-  those  of  the  Yorkshire  series  have  the  most 

tion  in  Turner.      ^         ,  -     ,^  ,  ,  -  .  -, 

heart  in  them,  the  most  attectionate,  simple,  un- 
wearied, serious  finishing  of  truth.  There  is  in  them  little 
seeking  after  effect,  but  a  strong  love  of  place,  little  exhibi- 
tion of  the  artist's  own  powers  or  peculiarities,  but  intense 
appreciation  of  the  smallest  local  minutiae.  These  drawings 
have  unfortunately  changed  hands  frequently,  and  have  been 
abused  and  ill-treated  by  picture  dealers  and  cleaners  ;  the 
greater  number  of  them  are  now  mere  wrecks.  I  name  them 
not  as  instances,  but  as  proofs  of  the  artist's  study  in  this 
district  ;  for  the  affection  to  which  they  owe  their  excellence, 
must  have  been  grounded  long  years  before.  It  is  to  be 
traced,  not  only  in  these  drawings  of  the  places  themselves, 
but  in  the  peculiar  love  of  the  painter  for  rounded  forms  of 
hills  ;  not  but  that  he  is  right  in  this  on  general  principles, 
for  I  doubt  not,  that,  with  his  peculiar  feeling  for  beauty  of 
line,  his  hills  would  have  been  rounded  still,  even  if  he  had 
studied  first  among  the  peaks  of  Cadore  ;  but  rounded  to 
the  same  extent  and  with  the  same  delight  in  their  round- 
ness, they  would  not  have  been.  It  is,  I  belie.ve,  to  those 
broad  wooded  steeps  and  swells  of  the  Yorkshire  downs  that 
we  in  part  owe  the  singular  massiveness  that  prevails  in 
Turner's  mountain  drawing,  and  gives  it  one  of  its  chief  ele- 
ments of  grandeur.  Let  the  reader  open  the  Liber  Studio- 
rum,  and  compare  the  painter's  enjoyment  of  the  lines  in  the 
Ben  Arthur,  with  his  comparative  uncomfortableness  among 
those  of  the  aiguilles  about  the  Mer  de  Glace.  Great  as  he 
is,  those  peaks  would  have  been  touched  very  differently  by 
a  Savoyard  as  great  as  he. 

I  am  in  the  habit  of  looking  to  the  Yorkshire  drawings,  as 
indicating  one  of  the  culminating  points  in  Turner's  career. 
In  these  he  attained  the  highest  degree  of  what  he  had  up 
to  that  time  attempted,  namely,  finish  and  quantity  of  form 
united  with  expression  pf  atmosphere,  and  light  without 
color.    His  early  drawings  are  singularly  instructive  in  this 


THE  FOREGOING  PEINGIPLE8.  195 


definiteness  and  simplicity  of  aim.  No  complicated  or  brill- 
iant color  is  ever  thought  of  in  them  ;  they  are  little  more 
than  exquisite  studies  in  light  and  shade,  very  green  blues 
being  used  for  the  shadows,  and  golden  browns  for  the  lights. 
The  difficulty  and  treachery  of  color  being  thus  avoided,  the 
artist  was  able  to  bend  his  whole  mind  upon  the  drawing, 
and  thus  to  attain  such  decision,  delicacy,  and  completeness 
as  have  never  in  any  wise  been  equalled,  and  as  might  serve 
him  for  a  secure  foundation  in  all  after  experiments.  Of  the 
quantit}"  and  precision  of  his  details,  the  drawings  made 
for  Hakewill's  Italy  are  singular  examples.  The  most  per- 
fect gem  in  execution  is  a  little  bit  on  the  Rhine,  with  reeds 
in  the  foreground,  in  the  possession  of  B.  G.  Windus,  Esq., 
of  Tottenham  ;  but  the  Yorkshire  drawings  seem  to  be  on 
the  v^hole  the  most  noble  representatives  of  his  art  at  this 
period. 

About  the  time  of  their  production,  the  artist  seems  to 
have  felt  that  he  had  done  either  all  that  could  be  done,  or 
all  that  was  necessary,  in  that  manner,  and  began  to  reach 
after  something  beyond  it.  The  element  of  color  begins  to 
mingle  with  his  work,  and  in  the  first  efforts  to  reconcile  his 
intense  feeling  for  it  with  his  careful  form,  several  anomalies 
begin  to  be  visible,  and  some  unfortunate  or  uninteresting 
works  necessarily  belong  to  the  period.  The  England  draw- 
ings, which  are  very  characteristic  of  it,  are  exceedingly  un- 
equal,— some,  as  the  Oakhampton,  Kilgarren,  Alnwick,  and 
Llanthony,  being  among  his  finest  works  ;  others,  as  the 
Windsor  from  Eton,  the  Eton  College,  and  the  Bedford, 
showing  coarseness  and  conventionality. 

I  do  not  know  at  what  time  the  painter  first  went  abroad, 
but  among  the  earliest  of  the  series  of  the  Liber  Studiorum 
(dates  1808,  1809)  occur  the  magnificent  Mont  St.  Gothard, 
§  40.  The  domes-  little  Devil's  Bridge.  Now  it  is  remarkable 
the  Lib^r^tu-  ^^^^  after  his  acquaintance  with  this  scenery,  so 
diorum.  Congenial  in  almost  all  respects  with  the  energy 

of  his  mind,  and  supplying  him  with  materials  of  w^hich  in 
these  two  subjects,  and  in  the  Chartreuse,  and  several  others 
afterwards,  he  showed  both  his  entire  appreciation  and  com* 


196 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


mand,  the  proportion  of  English  to  foreign  subjects  should 
in  the  rest  of  the  work  be  more  than  two  to  one  ;  and  that 
those  English  subjects  should  be — many  of  them — of  a  kind 
peculiarly  simple,  and  of  every-day  occurrence,  such  as  the 
Pembury  Mill,  the  Farm  Yard  Composition  with  the  White 
Horse,  that  with  the  Cocks  and  Pigs,  Hedging  and  Ditch- 
ing, Watercress  Gatherers  (scene  at  Twickenham,)  and  the 
beautiful  and  solemn  rustic  subject  called  a  Watermill  ;  and 
that  the  architectural  subjects  instead  of  being  taken,  as 
might  have  been  expected  of  an  artist  so  fond  of  treating 
effects  of  extended  space,  from  some  of  the  enormous  con- 
tinental masses,  are  almost  exclusively  British  ;  Rivaulx, 
Holy  Island,  Dumblain,  Dunstanborough,  Chesptow,  St. 
Catherine's,  Greenwich  Hospital,  an  English  Parish  Church, 
a  Saxon  Ruin,  and  an  exquisite  Reminiscence  of  the  English 
Lowland  Castle  in  the  pastoral,  with  the  brook,  wooden 
bridge,  and  wild  duck,  to  all  of  which  we  have  nothing  for- 
eign to  oppose  but  three  slight,  ill-considered,  and  unsatis- 
factory subjects,  from  Basle,  Lauifenbourg,  and  another 
Swiss  village  ;  and,  further,  not  only  is  the  preponderance 
of  subject  British,  but  of  affection  also  ;  for  it  is  strange 
with  what  fulness  and  completion  the  home  subjects  are 
treated  in  comparison  with  the  greater  part  of  the  foreign 
ones.  Compare  the  figures  and  sheep  in  the  Hedging  and 
Ditching,  and  the  East  gate  Winchelsea,  together  with  the 
near  leafage,  with  the  puzzled  foreground  and  inappropriate 
figures  of  the  Lake  of  Thun  ;  or  the  cattle  and  road  of  the 
St.  Catherine's  Hill,  with  the  foreground  of  the  Bonneville  ; 
or  the  exquisite  figure  with  the  sheaf  of  corn,  in  the  Water- 
mill;  with  the  vintages  of  the  Grenoble  subject. 

In  his  foliage  the  same  predilections  are  remarkable.  Rem- 
iniscences of  English  willows  by  the  brooks,  and  English 
forest  glades  mingle  even  with  the  heroic  foliage  of  the 
iEsacus  and  Hesperie,  and  the  Cephalus  ;  into  the  pine, 
whether  of  Switzerland  or  the  glorious  Stone,  he  cannot  en- 
ter, or  enters  at  his  peril,  like  Ariel.  Tliose  of  the  Valley 
of  Chamounix  are  fine  masses,  better  pines  than  other  peo- 
ple's, but  not  a  bit  like  pines  for  all  that  ;  he  feels  his  weak- 


THE  FOREGOING  FBINGIPLE8. 


197 


iiess,  and  tears  them  off  the  distant  mountains  with  the  mer- 
cilessness  of  an  avalanche.  The  Stone  pines  of  the  two 
Italian  compositions  are  fine  in  their  arrangement,  but  they 
are  very  pitiful  pines  ;  the  glory  of  the  Alpine  rose  he  never 
touches  ;  he  munches  chestnuts  with  no  relish  ;  never  has 
learned  to  like  olives  ;  and,  by  the  vine,  we  find  him  in  the 
foreground  of  the  Grenoble  Alps  laid  utterly  and  incontro- 
vertibly  on  his  back. 

I  adduce  these  evidences  of  Turner's  nationality  (and  in- 
numerable others  might  be  given  if  need  were)  not  as  proofs 
of  weakness  but  of  power  ;  not  so  much  as  testifying  want 
of  perception  in  foreign  lands,  as  strong  hold  on  his  own 
will  ;  for  I  am  sure  that  no  artist  who  has  not  this  hold  upon 
his  own  will  ever  get  good  out  of  any  other.  Keeping  this 
principle  in  mind,  it  is  instructive  to  observe  the  depth  and 
solemnity  which  Turner's  feeling  received  from  the  scenery 
of  the  continent,  the  keen  appreciation  up  to  a  certain  point 
of  all  that  is  locally  characteristic,  and  the  ready  seizure  for 
future  use  of  all  valuable  material. 

Of  all  foreign  countries  he  has  most  entirely  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  France  ;  partly  because  here  he  found  more  fel- 
lowship of  scene  with  his  own  England,  partly  because  an 
^      ^      ,     amount  of  thou2:ht  which  will  miss  of  Italy  or 

§  41.    Turner's  .  .  ^ 

painting  oc         Switzerland,  will  fathom  France  ;  partly  be- 

French  and  Swiss  ..       .       ^         ir»T  n*)* 

landscape.   The  cause  there  IS  in  the  I*  rench  loliage  and  forms 

latter    deficient.      «  t  -ii  -i 

oi  ground,  much  that  is  especially  congenial 
with  his  own  peculiar  choice  of  form.  To  what  cause  it  is 
owing  I  cannot  tell,  nor  is  it  generally  allowed  or  felt  ;  but 
of  the  fact  I  am  certain,  that  for  grace  of  stem  and  perfec- 
tion of  form  in  their  transparent  foliage,  the  French  frees 
are  altogether  unmatched  ;  and  their  modes  of  grouping  and 
massing  are  so  perfectly  and  constantly  beautiful  that  I  think 
of  all  countries  for  educating  an  artist  to  the  perception  of 
grace,  France  bears  the  bell  ;  and  that  not  romantic  nor 
mountainous  France,  not  the  Vosges,  nor  Auvergne,  nor 
Provence,  but  lowland  France,  Picardy  and  Normandy,  the 
valleys  of  the  Loire  and  Seine,  and  even  the  district,  so 
thoughtlessly  and  mindlessly  abused  by  English  travellers,  as 


198 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


uninteresting,  traversed  between  Calais  and  Dijon  ;  of  which 
there  is  not  a  single  valley  but  is  full  of  the  most  lovely  pict- 
ures, nor  a  mile  from  which  the  artist  may  not  receive  in- 
struction ;  the  district  immediately  about  Sens  being  per- 
haps the  most  valuable  from  the  grandeur  of  its  lines  of  pop- 
lars and  the  unimaginable  finish  and  beauty  of  the  tree  forms 
in  the  two  great  avenues  without  the  walls.  Of  this  kind  of 
beauty  Turner  was  the  first  to  take  cognizance,  and  he  still 
remains  the  only,  but  in  himself  the  sufficient  painter  of 
French  landscape.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  examples  is 
the  drawing  of  trees  engraved  for  the  Keepsake,  now  in  the 
possession  of  B.  G.  Windus,  Esq.;  the  drawings  made  to 
illustrate  the  scenery  of  the  Rivers  of  France  supply  in- 
stances of  the  most  varied  character. 

The  artist  appears,  until  very  lately,  rather  to  have  taken 
from  Switzerland  thoughts  and  general  conceptions  of  size  and 
of  grand  form  and  effect  to  be  used  in  his  after  compositions, 
than  to  have  attempted  the  seizing  of  its  actual  character. 
This  was  beforehand  to  be  expected  from  the  utter  physical 
impossibility  of  rendering  certain  effects  of  Swiss  scenery, 
and  the  monotony  and  unmanageableness  of  others.  The 
Valley  of  Chamounix  in  the  collection  of  Walter  Fawkes, 
Esq.,  I  have  never  seen  ;  it  has  a  high  reputation  ;  the  Han- 
nibal passing  the  Alps  in  its  present  state  exhibits  nothing 
but  a  heavy  shower  and  a  crowd  of  people  getting  wet  ;  an- 
other picture  in  the  artist's  gallery  of  a  land-fall  is  most  mas- 
terly and  interesting,  but  more  daring  than  agreeable.  The 
Snow-storm,  avalanche,  and  inundation,  is  one  of  his  might- 
iest works,  but  the  amount  of  mountain  drawing  in  it  is  less 
tharl  of  cloud  and  effect ;  the  subjects  in  the  Liber  Studiorum 
are  on  the  whole  the  most  intensely  felt,  and  next  to  them 
§4'>  His  render  vignettes  to  Rogers's  Poems  and  Italy.  Of 
ing  of   Italian  some  reccut  drawin2:s  of  Swiss  subject  I  shall 

character      still  ^  " 

loss   successful,  speak  presently. 

His  large  com-        rm        /v  i«  't* 

positions  how  The  efiect  oi  Italy  upon  his  mind  is  very  puz- 
faihng.  zling.  On  the  one  hand,  it  gave  him  the  solemnity 

and  power  which  are  manifested  in  the  historical  compositions 
of  the  Liber  Studiorum,  more  especially  the  Rizpah,  the 


THE  FOBE  GOING  PIUNGIPLES. 


199 


Cephalus,  the  scene  from  the  Fairy  Queen,  and  the  ^sacus 
and  Hesperie  :  on  the  other,  he  seems  never  to  have  entered 
thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  Italy,  and  the  materials  he 
obtained  there  were  afterwards  but  awkwardly  introduced  in 
his  large  compositions. 

Of  these  there  are  very  few  at  all  worthy  of  him  ;  none  but 
the  Liber  Studiorum  subjects  are  thoroughly  great,  and  these 
are  great  because  there  -is  in  them  the  seriousness  without 
the  materials  of  other  countries  and  times.  There  is  nothing 
particularly  indicative  of  Palestine  in  the  Barley  Harvest  of 
the  Rizpah,  nor  in  those  round  and  awful  trees  ;  only  the 
solemnity  of  the  south  in  the  lifting  of  the  near  burning 
moon.  The  rocks  of  the  Jason  may  be  seen  in  any  quarry  of 
Warwickshire  sandstone.  Jason  himself  has  not  a  bit  of 
Greek  about  him — he  is  a  simple  warrior  of  no  period  in  par- 
ticular, nay,  I  think  there  is  something  of  the  nineteenth 
century  about  his  legs.  When  local  character  of  this  classic 
cal  kind  is  attempted,  the  painter  is  visibly  cramped  :  awk- 
ward resemblances  to  Claude  testify  the  want  of  his  usual 
forceful  originality:  in  the  tenth  Plague  of  Egypt,  he  makes 
us  think  of  Belzoni  rather  than  of  Moses  ;  the  fifth  is  a  total 
failure,  the  pyramids  look  like  brick-kilns,  and  the  fire  run- 
ning along  the  ground  bears  brotherly  resemblance  to  the 
burning  of  manure.  The  realization  of  the  tenth  plague  now 
in  his  gallery  is  finer  than  the  study,  but  still  uninteresting  ; 
and  of  the  large  compositions  which  have  much  of  Italy  in 
them,  the  greater  part  are  overwhelmed  with  quantity  and  de- 
ficient in  emotion.  The  Crossing  the  Brook  is  one  of  the  best 
of  these  hybrid  pictures  ;  incomparable  in  its  tree-drawing,  it 
yet  leaves  us  doubtful  where  we  are  to  look  and  what  we  are 
to  feel ;  it  is  northern  in  its  color,  southern  in  its  foliage, 
Italy  in  its  details,  and  England  in  its  sensations,  without  the 
grandeur  of  the  one,  or  the  healthiness  of  the  other. 

The  two  Carthages  are  mere  rationalizations  of  Claude, 
one  of  them  excessively  bad  in  color,  the  other  a  grand 
thought,  and  yet  one  of  the  kind  which  does  no  one  any 
good,  because  everything  in  it  is  reciprocally  sacrificed  ;  the 
foliage  is  sacrificed  to  the  architecture,  the  architecture  to 


200 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


the  water,  the  water  is  neither  sea,  nor  river,  nor  lake,  nor 
brook,  nor  canal,  and  savors  of  Regent's  Park  ;  the  fore- 
ground is  uncomfortable  ground, — -let  on  building  leases.  So 
the  Caligula's  Bridge,  Temple  of  Jupiter,  Departure  of 
Regulus,  Ancient  Italy,  Cicero's  Villa,  and  such  others, 
come  they  from  whose  hand  they  may,  I  class  under  the 
general  head  of  "nonsense  pictures."  There  never  can  be 
any  wholesome  feeling  developed  in  these  preposterous  ac- 
cumulations, and  where  the  artist's  feeling  fails,  his  art  fol- 
lows ;  so  that  the  worst  possible  examples  of  Turner's  color 
are  found  in  pictures  of  this  class  ;  in  one  or  two  instances 
he  has  broken  through  the  conventional  rules,  and  then  is 
always  fine,  as  in  the  Hero  and  Leander  ;  but  in  general  the 
picture  rises  in  value  as  it  approaches  to  a  view,  as  the 
Fountain  of  Fallacy,  a  piece  of  rich  northern  Italy,  with 
some  fairy  waterworks  ;  this  picture  was  unrivalled  in  color 
once,  but  is  now  a  mere  wreck.  So  the  Rape  of  Proserpine, 
though  it  is  singular  that  in  his  Academy  pictures  even  his 
simplicity  fails  of  reaching  ideality  ;  in  this  picture  of  Pros- 
erpine the  nature  is  not  the  grand  nature  of  all  time,  it  is 
indubitably  modern,*  and  we  are  perfectly  electrified  at  any- 
body's being  carried  away  in  the  corner  except  by  people 
with  spiky  hats  and  carabines.  This  is  traceable  to  several 
causes  ;  partly  to  the  want  of  any  grand  specific  form,  partly 
to  the  too  evident  middle-age  character  of  the  ruins  crown- 
ing the  hills,  and  to  a  multiplicity  of  minor  causes  which  we 
cannot  at  present  enter  into. 

Neither  in  his  actual  views  of  Italy  has  Turner  ever  caught 
her  true  spirit,  except  in  the  little  vignettes  to  Rogers's 
Poems.  The  Villa  of  Galileo,  the  nameless  composition  with 
stone  pines,  the  several  villa  moonlights,  and  the  convent 

This  passage  seems  at  variance  with  what  has  been  said  of  the  neces- 
sity of  painting  present  times  and  objects.  It  is  nob  so.  A  great  painter 
makes  out  of  that  which  he  finds  before  him  something  which  is  inde- 
pendent of  all  time.  He  can  only  do  this  out  of  the  materials  ready  to 
his  hand,  but  that  which  he  builds  has  the  dignity  of  dateless  age.  A 
little  painter  is  annihilated  by  an  anachronism,  and  is  conventionally 
anti(iue,  and  involuntarily  modern. 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES. 


201 


compositions  in  the  Voyage  of  Columbus,  are  altogether 
exquisite  ;  but  this  is  owing  chiefly  to  their  simplicity  and 
perhaps  in  some  measure  to  their  smallness  of 
of  Italy  destroy-  size.  Noue  of  his  large  pictures  at  all  equal 
and^^redundS  them  ;  the  Bay  of  Baiae  is  encumbered  with  ma- 
quantity.  tcrial,  it  contaius  ten  times  as  much  as  is  neces- 

sary to  a  good  picture,  and  yet  is  so  crude  in  color  as  to 
look  unfinished.  The  Palestrina  is  full  of  raw  white^  and 
has  a  look  of  Hampton  Court  about  its  long  avenue  ;  the 
modern  Italy  is  purely  English  in  its  near  foliage  ;  it  is  com- 
posed from  Tivoli  material  enriched  and  arranged  most 
dexterously,  but  it  has  the  look  of  a  rich  arrangement, 
and  not  the  virtue  of  the  real  thing.  The  early  Tivoli,  a 
large  drawing  taken  from  below  the  falls,  was  as  little  true, 
and  still  less  fortunate,  the  trees  there  being  altogether  af- 
fected and  artificial.  The  Florence  engraved  in  the  Keep- 
sake is  a  glorious  drawing,  as  far  as  regards  the  passage 
with  the  bridge  and  sunlight  on  the  Arno,  the  Cascine  foli- 
age, and  distant  plain,  and  the  towers  of  the  fortress  on  the 
left  ;  but  the  details  of  the  duomo  and  the  city  are  entirely 
missed,  and  with  them  the  majesty  of  the  whole  scene.  The 
vines  and  melons  of  the  foreground  are  disorderly,  and  its 
cypresses  conventional  ;  in  fact,  I  recollect  no  instance  of 
Turner's  drawing  a  cypress  except  in  general  terms. 

The  chief  reason  of  these  failures  I  imagine  to  be  the  effort 
of  the  artist  to  put  joyousness  and  brilliancy  of  effect  upon 
scenes  eminently  pensive,  to  substitute  radiance  for  serenity 
of  light,  and  to  force  the  freedom  and  breadth  of  line  which 
he  learned  to  love  on  English  downs  and  Highland  moors, 
out  of  a  country  dotted  by  campaniles  and  square  convents, 
bristled  with  cypresses,  partitioned  by  walls,  and  gone  up 
and  down  by  steps. 

In  one  of  the  cities  of  Italy  he  had  no  such  difficulties  to 
encounter.  At  Venice  he  found  freedom  of  space,  brilliancy 
of  light,  variety  of  color,  massy  simplicity  of  general  form  ; 
and  to  Venice  we  owe  many  of  the  motives  in  which  his 
highest  powers  of  color  have  been  displayed  after  that 
change  in  his  system  of  which  we  must  now  take  note. 


202 


GENEBAL  APPLICATION  OF 


Among  the  earlier  paintings  of  Turner,  the  culminating 
period,  marked  by  the  Yorkshire  series  in  his  drawings,  is 
distinguished  by  great  solemnity  and  simplicity  of  subject, 
§  44    Changes  P^'^valent  gloom  in  light  and  shade,  and  brown 
•     introduced   b  y  in  the  hue,  the  drawinsr  manly  but  careful,  the 

him  in  the  re-       .        .  .  .  .     ,   *^    ,  ' 

ceived  system  of  minutiae  sometimes  exquisitely  delicate.  All  the 
finest  works  of  this  period  are,  I  believe,  with- 
out exception,  views,  or  quiet  single  thoughts.  The  Calder 
Bridge,  belonging  to  E.  Bicknell,  Esq.,  is  a  most  pure  and 
beautiful  example.  The  Ivy  Bridge  I  imagine  to  be  later, 
but  its  rock  foreground  is  altogether  unrivalled  and  remark- 
able for  its  delicacy  of  detail ;  a  butterfly  is  seen  settled  on 
one  of  the  large  brown  stones  in  the  midst  of  the  torrent. 
Two  paintings  of  Bonneville,  in  Savoy,  one  in  the  possession 
of  Abel  Allnutt,  Esq.,  the  other,  and,  I  think,  the  finest,  in  a 
collection  at  Birmingham,  show  more  variety  of  color  than  is 
usual  with  him  at  the  period,  and  are  in  every  respect  mag- 
nificent examples.  Pictures  of  this  class  are  of  peculiar 
value,  for  the  larger  compositions  of  the  same  period  are  all 
poor  in  color,  and  most  of  them  much  damaged,  but  the 
smaller  works  have  been  far  finer  originally,  and  their  color 
seems  secure.  There  is  nothing  in  the  range  of  landscape 
art  equal  to  them  in  their  way,  but  the  full  character  and 
capacity  of  the  painter  is  not  in  them.  Grand  as  they  are  in 
their  sobriety,  they  still  leave  much  to  be  desired  ;  there  is 
great  heaviness  in  their  shadows,  the  material  is  never  thor- 
oughly vanquished,  (though  this  partly  for  a  very  noble  rea- 
son, that  the  painter  is  always  thinking  of  and  referring  to 
nature,  and  indulges  in  no  artistical  conventionalities,)  and 
sometimes  the  handling  appears  feeble.  In  warmth,  light- 
ness, and  transparency  they  have  no  chance  against  Gains- 
borough ;  in  clear  skies  and  air  tone  they  are  alike  unfortu- 
nate when  they  provoke  comparison  with  Claude  ;  and  in 
force  and  solemnity  they  can  in  no  wise  stand  with  the  land- 
scape of  the  Venetians. 

The  painter  evidently  felt  that  he  had  farther  powers,  and 
pressed  forward  into  the  field  where  alone  they  could  be 
brought  into  play.    It  was  impossible  for  him,  with  all  his 


THE  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES. 


203 


keen  and  long-disciplined  perceptions,  not  to  feel  that  the 
real  color  of  nature  had  never  been  attempted  by  any  school  ; 
and  that  though  conventional  representations  had  been  given 
by  the  Venetians  of  sunlight  and  twilight,  by  invariably  ren- 
dering the  whites  golden  and  the  blues  green,  yet  of  the  ac- 
tual, joyous,  pure,  roseate  hues  of  the  external  world  no  rec- 
ord had  ever  been  given.  He  saw  also  that  the  finish  and 
specific  grandeur  of  nature  had  been  given,  but  her  fulness, 
space,  and  mystery  never ;  and  he  saw  that  the  great  land- 
scape painters  had  always  sunk  the  lower  middle  tints  of 
nature  in  extreme  shade,  bringing  the  entire  melody  of  color 
as  many  degrees  down  as  their  possible  light  was  inferior  to 
nature's  ;  and  that  in  so  doing  a  gloomy  principle  had  influ- 
enced them  even  in  their  choice  of  subject. 

For  the  conventional  color  he  substituted  a  pure  straight- 
forward rendering  of  fact,  as  far  as  was  in  his  power  ;  and 
that  not  of  such  fact  as  had  been  before  even  suggested,  but 
of  all  that  is  7nost  brilliant,  beautiful,  and  inimitable  ;  he 
went  to  the  cataract  for  its  iris,  to  the  conflagration  for  its 
flames,  asked  of  the  sea  its  intensest  azure,  of  the  sky  its 
clearest  gold.  For  the  limited  space  and  defined  forms  of 
elder  landscape,  he  substituted  the  quantity  and  the  mystery 
of  the  vastest  scenes  of  earth  ;  and  for  the  subdued  chiaros- 
curo he  substituted  first  a  balanced  diminution  of  oppositions 
throughout  the  scale,  and  afterwards,  in  one  or  two  instances, 
attempted  the  reverse  of  the  old  principle,  taking  the  lowest 
portion  of  the  scale  truly,  and  merging  the  upper  part  in 
high  light. 

Innovations  so  daring  and  so  various  could  not  be  intro- 
duced without  corresponding  peril  :  the  difficulties  that  lay 
in  his  way  were  more  than  any  human  intellect  could  alto- 
§45.  Difficulties  gather  surmount.  In  his  time  there  has  been 
ne^!^^  ^  ResuUant  systcm  of  color  generally  approved  ; 

deficiencies.  every  artist  has  his  own  method  and  his  own 
vehicle  ;  how  to  do  what  Gainsborough  did,  we  know  not  ; 
much  less  what  Titian  ;  to  invent  a  new  system  of  color  can 
hardly  be  expected  of  those  who  cannot  recover  the  old. 
To  obtain  perfectly  satisfactory  results  in  color  under  the 


204 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


new  conditions  introduced  by  Turner,  would  at  least  have  re- 
quired the  exertion  of  all  his  energies  in  that  sole  direc- 
tion. But  color  has  always  been  only  his  second  object. 
The  effects  of  space  and  form,  in  which  he  delights,  often 
require  the  employment  of  means  and  method  totally  at 
variance  with  those  necessary  for  the  obtaining  of  pure 
color.  It  is  physically  impossible,  for  instance,  rightly  to 
draw  certain  forms  of  the  upper  clouds  with  the  brush  ;  noth- 
ing will  do  it  but  the  pallet  knife  with  loaded  white  after  the 
blue  ground  is  prepared.  Now  it  is  impossible  that  a  cloud 
so  drawn,  however  glazed  afterwards,  should  have  the  virtue 
of  a  thin  warm  tint  of  Titian's,  showing  the  canvas  through- 
out. So  it  happens  continually.  Add  to  these  difficulties, 
those  of  the  peculiar  subjects  attempted,  and  to  these  again, 
all  that  belong  to  the  altered  system  of  chiaroscuro,  and  it  is 
evident  that  we  must  not  be  surprised  at  finding  many  de- 
ficiencies or  faults  in  such  works,  especially  in  the  earlier  of 
them,  nor  even  suffer  ourselves  to  be  withdrawn  by  the 
pursuit  of  what  seems  censurable  from  our  devotion  to  what 
is  mighty. 

Notwithstanding,  in  some  chosen  examples  of  pictures  of 
this  kind,  I  will  name  three  :  Juliet  and  her  Nurse  ;  the  Old 
Temeraire,  and  the  Slave  Ship  :  I  do  not  admit  that  there 
are  at  the  time  of  their  first  appearing  on  the  walls  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  any  demonstrably  avoidable  faults.  I  do 
not  deny  that  there  may  be,  nay,  that  it  is  likely  there  are  ; 
but  there  is  no  living  artist  in  Europe  whose  judgment 
might  safely  be  taken  on  the  subject,  or  who  could  without 
arrogance  affirm  of  any  part  of  such  a  picture,  that  it  was 
wrong  /  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  allow,  that  the  lemon  yel- 
low is  not  properly  representative  of  the  yellow  of  the  sky, 
that  the  loading  of  the  color  is  in  many  places  disagreeable, 
that  many  of  the  details  are  drawn  with  a  kind  of  imperfec- 
tion different  from  what  they  would  have  in  nature,  and  that 
many  of  the  parts  fail  of  imitation,  especially  to  an  unedu- 
cated eye.  But  no  living  authority  is  of  weight  enough  to 
prove  that  the  virtues  of  the  picture  could  have  been  ob- 
tained at  a  less  sacrifice,  or  that  they  are  not  worth  the  sac- 


'fiflff  FOREGOING  PRINCIPLES, 


205 


rifice  ;  and  though  it  is  perfectly  possible  that  such  may  be 
the  case,  and  that  what  Turner  has  done  may  hereafter  in 
some  respects  be  done  better,  I  believe  myself  that  these 
works  are  at  the  time  of  their  first  appearing  as  perfect  as 
those  of  Phidias  or  Leonardo  ;  that  is  to  say,  incapable  in 
their  way,  of  any  improvement  conceivable  by  human  mind. 

Also,  it  is  only  by  comparison  with  such  that  we  are  au- 
thorized to  affirm  definite  faults  in  any  of  his  others,  for  we 
should  have  been  bound  to  speak,  at  least  for  the  present, 
with  the  same  modesty  respecting  even  his  worst  pictures  of 
this  class,  had  not  his  more  noble  efforts  given  us  canons  of 
criticism. 

But,  as  was  beforehand  to  be  expected  from  the  difficulties 
he  grappled  with,  Turner  is  exceedingly  unequal  ;  he  appears 
always  as  a  champion  in  the  thick  of  fight,  sometimes  with 
his  foot  on  his  enemies'  necks,  sometimes  staggered  or  struck 
to  his  knee  ;  once  or  twice  altogether  down.  He  has  failed 
most  frequently,  as  before  noticed,  in  elaborate  compositions, 
from  redundant  quantity  ;  sometimes,  like  most  other  men, 
from  overcare,  as  very  signally  in  a  large  and  most  labored 
drawing  of  Bamborough  ;  sometimes,  unaccountably,  his  eye 
for  color  seeming  to  fail  him  for  a  time,  as  in  a  large  paint- 
ing of  Rome  from  the  Forum,  and  in  the  Cicero's  Villa,  Build- 
ing of  Carthage,  and  the  picture  of  this  year  in  the  British 
Institution  ;  and  sometimes  I  am  sorry  to  say,  criminally, 
from  taking  licenses  which  he  must  know  to  be  illegitimate, 
or  indulging  in  conventionalities  which  he  does  not  require. 

On  such  instances  I  shall  not  insist,  for  the  finding  fault 
with  Turner  is  not,  I  think,  either  decorous  in  myself  or  like 
to  be  beneficial  to  the  reader.*    The  greater  number  of  fail- 

*  One  point,  however,  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to  notice,  being  no 
question  of  art  but  of  material.  The  reader  will  have  observed  that  I 
strictly  limited  the  perfection  of  Turner's  works  to  the  time  of  their 
first  appearing  on  the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy.  It  bitterly  grieves 
me  to  have  to  do  this,  but  the  fact  is  indeed  so.  No  'picture  of  Turner's 
is  seen  in  perfection  a  month  after  it  is  painted.  The  Walhalla  cracked 
before  it  had  been  eight  days  in  the  Academy  rooms ;  the  vermilions 
frequently  lose  lustre  long  before  the  exhibition  is  over ;  and  when  all 


206 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


ures  took  place  ih  the  transition  period,  when  the  artist  was 
feeling  for  the  new  qualities,  and  endeavoring  to  reconcile 
them  with  more  careful  elaboration  of  form  than  was  prop- 
§  46.  Reflection  ^^^^  Consistent  with  them.  Gradually  his  hand 
of  his  very  re-  became  more  free,  his  perception  and  sfrasD  of  the 

cent  works.  x  i  &  r 

new  truths  more  certain,  and  his  choice  of  subject 
more  adapted  to  the  exhibition  of  them.    But  his  powers  did 

the  colors  begin  to  get  hard  a  year  or  two  after  the  picture  is  painted, 
a  painful  deadness  and  opacity  comes  over  them,  the  whites  especially 
becoming  lifeless,  and  many  of  the  warmer  passages  settling  into  a  hard 
valueless  brown,  even  if  the  paint  remains  perfectly  firm,  which  is  far 
from  being  always  the  case.  I  believe  that  in  some  measure  these  re- 
sults are  unavoidable,  the  colors  being  so  peculiarly  blended  and  mingled 
in  Turner's  present  manner  as  almost  to  necessitate  their  irregular  dry- 
ing ;  but  that  tbey  are  not  necessary  to  the  extent  in  which  they  sometimes 
take  place,  is  proved  by  the  comparative  safety  of  some  even  of  the 
more  brilliant  works.  Thus  the  Old  Temeraire  is  nearly  safe  in  color, 
and  quite  firm  ;  while  the  Juliet  and  her  Nurse  is  now  the  ghost  of 
what  it  was ;  the  Slaver  shows  no  cracks,  though  it  is  chilled  in  somo 
of  the  darker  passages,  while  the  Walhalla  and  several  of  the  recent 
Venices  cracked  in  the  Royal  Academy.  It  is  true  that  the  damage 
makes  no  further  progress  after  the  first  year  or  two,  and  that  even  in 
its  altered  state  the  picture  is  always  valuable  and  records  its  intention ; 
but  it  is  bitterly  to  be  regretted  that  so  great  a  painter  should  not  leave 
a  single  work  by  which  in  succeeding  ages  he  might  be  estimated.  The 
fact  of  his  using  means  so  imperfect,  together  with  that  of  his  utter 
neglect  of  the  pictures  in  bis  own  gallery,  are  a  phenomenon  in  human 
mind  which  appears  to  me  utterly  inexplicable  ;  and  both  are  without 
excuse,  if  the  effects  he  desires  cannot  be  to  their  full  extent  pro- 
duced except  by  these  treacherous  means,  one  picture  only  should  be 
painted  each  year  as  an  exhibition  of  immediate  power,  and  the  rest 
should  be  carried  out,  whatever  the  expense  of  labor  and  time,  in  safe 
materials,  even  at  the  risk  of  some  deterioration  of  immediate  effect. 
That  which  is  greatest  in  him  is  entirely  independent  of  means  ;  much 
of  what  he  now  accomplishes  illegitimately  might  without  doubfc  be  at- 
tained in  securer  modes — what  cannot  should  without  hesitation  be 
abandoned.  Fortunately  the  drawings  appear  subject  to  no  such  dete- 
rioration. Many  of  them  are  now  almost  destroyed,  but  this  has  been 
I  think  always  through  ill  treatment,  or  has  been  the  case  only  with 
very  early  works.  I  have  myself  known  no  instance  of  a  drawing  prop- 
erly protected,  and  not  rashly  exposed  to  light  suffering  the  slightest 
change.  The  great  foes  of  Turner,  as  of  all  other  great  colorists  espe- 
cially, are  the  picture  cleaner  and  the  mounter. 


THE  FOREGOING  FEINGIFLES. 


207 


not  attain  their  highest  results  till  towards  the  year  1840, 
about  which  period  they  did  so  suddenly,  and  with  a  vigor  and 
concentration  which  rendered  his  pictures  at  that  time  almost 
incomparable  with  those  which  had  preceded  them.  The 
drawings  of  Nemi,  and  Oberwesel,  in  the  possession  of  B.  G. 
Windus,  Esq.,  were  among  the  first  evidences  of  this  sudden 
advance  ;  only  the  foliage  in  both  of  these  is  inferior  ;  and 
it  is  remarkable  that  in  this  phase  of  his  art,  Turner  has  drawn 
little  foliage,  and  that  little  badly — the  great  characteristic 
of  it  being  its  power,  beauty,  and  majesty  of  color,  and  its 
abandonment  of  all  littleness  and  division  of  thought  to  a 
single  impression.  In  the  year  1842,  he  made  some  draw- 
ings from  recent  sketches  in  Switzerland  ;  these,  with  some 
produced  in  the  following  years,  all  of  Swiss  subject,  I  con- 
sider to  be,  on  the  whole,  the  most  characteristic  and  perfect, 
works  he  has  ever  produced.  The  Academy  pictures  were 
far  inferior  to  them  ;  but  among  these  exam23les  of  the  same 
power  were  not  wanting,  more  especially  in  the  smaller  pict- 
ures of  Venice.  The  Sun  of  Venice,  going  to  sea  ;  the  San 
Benedetto,  looking  towards  Fusina  ;  and  a  view  of  Murano, 
with  the  Cemetery,  were  all  faultless  ;  another  of  Venice, 
seen  from  near  Fusina,  with  sunlight  and  moonlight  mixed 
(1844)  was,  I  think,  when  I  first  saw  it,  (and  it  still  remains 
little  injured,)  the  most  perfectly  heautiful  piece  of  color  of 
all  that  I  have  seen  produced  by  human  hands,  by  any  means, 
or  at  any  period.  Of  the  exhibition  of  1845,  I  have  only 
seen  a  small  Venice,  (still  I  believe  in  the  artist's  possession,) 
and  the  two  whaling  subjects.  The  Venice  is  a  second-rate 
work,  and  the  two  others  altogether  unworthy  of  him. 

In  conclusion  of  our  present  sketch  of  the  course  of  land- 
scape art,  it  may  be  generally  stated  that  Turner  is  the  only 
painter,  so  far  as  I  know,  who  has  ever  drawn  the  sky,  (not 
the  clear  sky,  which  we  before  saw  belonged  exclusively  to 
the  religious  schools,  but  the  various  forms  and  phenomena 
of  the  cloudy  heavens,)  all  previous  artists  having  only 
represented  it  typically  or  partially  ;  but  he  absolutely  and 
universally  :  he  is  the  only  painter  who  has  ever  drawn  a 
mountain,  or  a  stone  \  no  other  man  ever  having  learned 


208 


GENERAL  APPLICATION  OF 


tlieir  organization,  or  possessed  himself  of  their  spirit, 
except  in  part  and  obscurely,  (the  one  or  two  stones  noted 
of  Tintoret's,  (Vol.  II.,  Part  m.  Ch.  3,)  are  perhaps  hardly 
enough  on  which  to  found  an  exception  in  his  favor.)  He  is 
the  only  painter  who  ever  drew  the  stem  of  a  tree,  Titian 
having  come  the  nearest  before  him,  and  excelling  him  in 
the  muscular  development  of  the  larger  trunks,  (though 
sometimes  losing  the  woody  strength  in  a  serpent-like 
flaccidity,)  but  missing  the  grace  and  character  of  the 
ramifications.  He  is  the  only  painter  who  has  ever  repre- 
sented the  surface  of  calm,  or  the  force  of  agitated  water ; 
who  has  represented  the  effects  of  space  on  distant  objects, 
or  who  has  rendered  the  abstract  beauty  of  natural  color. 
These  assertions  I  make  deliberately,  after  careful  weigh- 
ing and  consideration,  in  no  spirit  of  dispute,  or  momentary 
zeal  ;  but  from  strong  and  convinced  feeling,  and  with  the 
consciousness  of  being  able  to  prove  them. 

This  proof  is  only  partially  and  incidentally  attempted  in 
the  present  portion  of  this  work,  which  was  originally  writ- 
ten, as  before  explained,  for  a  temporary  purpose,  and  which, 
therefore,  I  should  have  gladly  cancelled,  but  that,  relating 
as  it  does  only  to  simple  matters  of  fact  and  not  to  those  of 
feeling,  it  may  still,  perhaps,  be  of  service  to  some  readers 
who  would  be  unwilling  to  enter  into  the  more  speculative 
fields  with  which  the  succeeding  sections  are  concerned.  I 
leave,  therefore,  nearly  as  it  was  orimnally  writ- 

§  47.  Difficulty  of  \        n   ^^       -  .        .  /.      I  1  • 

demonstration  in  ten,  the  following  examination  of  the  relative 
such  subjects.  truthf ulness  of  elder  and  of  recent  art ;  always 
requesting  the  reader  to  remember,  as  some  excuse  for  the 
inadequate  execution,  even  of  what  I  have  here  attempted, 
how  difficult  it  is  to  express  or  explain,  by  language  only, 
those  delicate  qualities  of  the  object  of  sense,  on  the  seizing 
of  which  all  refined  truth  of  representation  depends.  Try, 
for  instance,  to  explain  in  language  the  exact  qualities  of 
the  lines  on  which  depend  the  whole  truth  and  beauty  of 
expression  about  the  half-opened  lips  of  RaiTaelle's  St.  Cath- 
erine. There  is,  indeed,  nothing  in  landscape  so  ineffable  as 
this  5  but  there  is  no  part  nor  portion  of  God's  works  in  which 


THE  FOBE GOING  PPJNGIPLE8, 


209 


the  delicacy  appreciable  by  a  cultivated  eye,  and  necessary 
to  be  rendered  in  art,  is  not  beyond  all  expression  and  ex- 
planation ;  I  cannot  tell  it  you,  if  you  do  not  see  it.  And 
thus  I  have  been  entirely  unable,  in  the  following  pages,  to 
demonstrate  clearly  anything  of  really  deep  and  perfect 
truth  ;  nothing  but  what  is  coarse  and  commonplace,  in  mat- 
ters to  be  judged  of  by  the  senses,  is  within  the  reach  of 
argument.  How  much  or  how  little  I  have  done  must  be 
judged  of  by  the  reader  :  how  much  it  is  impossible  to  do  I 
have  more  fully  shown  in  the  concluding  section. 

I  shall  first  take  into  consideration  those  general  truths, 
common  to  all  the  objects  of  nature,  which  are  productive  of 
what  is  usually  called  effect,"  that  is  to  say,  truths  of  tone, 
general  color,  space,  and  light.  I  shall  then  investigate  the 
truths  of  specific  form  and  color,  in  the  four  great  compo- 
nent parts  of  landscape — sky,  earth,  water,  and  vegetation. 
Vol.  I.— 14 


OF  GENEEAL  TEUTHS. 


CHAPTER  1. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 

As  I  have  already  allowed,  that  in  effects  of  tone,  the  old 
masters  have  never  yet  been  equalled  ;  and  as  this  is  the 
first,  and  nearly  the  last,  concession  I  shall  have  to  make  to 
them,  I  wish  it  at  once  to  be  thoroughly  understood  how 
§1.  Meaning  of  far  it  extends. 

F^rst[°\he^ right  I  Understand  two  things  by  the  word  "  tone 
hfsharJto^^he  —first,  the  exact  relief  and  relation  of  objects 
principal  light,  agaiust  and  to  each  other  in  substance  and  dark- 
ness, as  they  are  nearer  or  more  distant,  and  the  perfect  rela- 
tion of  the  shades  of  all  of  them  to  the  chief  light  of  the 
§2.  Secondly,  the  Picture,  whether  that  be  sky,  water,  or  anything 
quality  of  color  elsc.    Secoudlv,  the  cxact  relation  of  the  colors 

by   which    it  is  i     i  /.     i       t  i 

felt  to  owe  part  of  the  shadows  to  the  colors  of  the  lights,  so 

of  its  brightness     ,  ,  ,  p  i  i  i 

to  the  hue  of  that  they  may  be  at  once  leit  to  be  merely 
hghtuponit.  different  degrees  of  the  same  light  ;  and  the  ac- 
curate relation  among  the  illuminated  parts  themselves,  with 
respect  to  the  degree  in  which  they  are  influenced  by  the 
color  of  the  light  itself,  whether  warm  or  cold  ;  so  that  the 
whole  of  the  picture  (or,  where  several  tones  are  united, 
those  parts  of  it  which  are  under  each),  may  be  felt  to  be  in 
one  climate,  under  one  kind  of  light,  and  in  one  kind  of  at- 
mosphere ;  this  being  chiefly  dependent  on  that  peculiar  and 
inexplicable  quality  of  each  color  laid  on,  which  makes  the 
eye  feel  both  what  is  the  actual  color  of  the  object  represen- 


OF  TllUTH  OF  TONE, 


211 


ted,  and  that  it  is  raised  to  its  apparent  pitch  by  illumina- 
tion. A  very  bright  brown,  for  instance,  out  of  sunshine, 
may  be  precisely  of  the  same  shade  of  color  as  a  very  dead 
or  cold  brown  in  sunshine,  but  it  will  be  totally  different  in 
quality ;  and  that  quality  by  which  the  illuminated  dead 
color  would  be  felt  in  nature  dijfferent  from  the  unillumin- 
ated  bright  one,  is  what  artists  are  perpetually  aiming  at, 
and  connoisseurs  talking  nonsense  about,  under  the  name 
of  "  tone."  The  want  of  tone  in  pictures  is  caused  by 
objects  looking  bright  in  their  own  positive  hue,  and  not  by 
illumination,  and  by  the  consequent  want  of  sensation  of  the 
raising  of  their  hues  by  light. 

The  first  of  these  meanings  of  the  word  tone  "  is  liable 
to  be  confounded  with  what  is  commonly  called  "  aerial  per- 
spective." But  aerial  perspective  is  the  expression  of  space, 
§  3  Difference  ^^3^  means  whatsoever,  sharpness  of  edge, 
between  tone  in  vividness  of  color,  ctc. ,  assistcd  bv  2:reater  pitch 

Its  first  sense  and  ^     .     ^        ^       ^  • 

aerial  perspect-  of  shadow,  and  requires  only  that  objects  should 
be  detached  from  each  other,  by  degrees  of  inten- 
sity in  proportion  to  their  distance,  without  requiring  that 
the  difference  between  the  farthest  and  nearest  should  be  in 
positive  quantity  the  same  that  nature  has  put.  But  w^hat  I 
have  called  '^tone"  requires  that  there  should  be  the  same 
sum  of  difference,  as  well  as  the  same  division  of  differences. 

Now  the  finely  toned  pictures  of  the  old  masters  are,  in 
this  respect,  some  of  the  notes  of  nature  played  two  or  three 
octaves  below  her  key  ;  the  dark  objects  in  the  middle  dis- 
p  ^        .         tance  havino:  precisely  the  same  relation  to  the 

§  4.  The  pictures  &  r  J 

of  the  old  mas-  lio-ht  of  the  skv  which  they  have  in  nature,  but 

ters  perfect    in  ^.    .      .     .    ^  m      •    r.    •     i      i  n 

relation  of  mid-  the  light  being  ncccssarily  infinitely  lowered, 
e  tints  to  light.  mass  of  the  shadow  deepened  in  the 

same  degree.  I  have  often  been  struck,  when  looking  at  a 
camera-obscuro  on  a  dark  day,  with  the  exact  resemblance 
the  image  bore  to  one  of  the  finest  pictures  of  the  old  mas- 
ters ;  all  the  foliage  coming  dark  against  the  sky,  and  noth- 
ing being  seen  in  its  mass  but  here  and  there  the  isolated 
light  of  a  silvery  stem  or  an  unusually  illumined  cluster  of 
leafage. 


212 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


Now  if  this  could  be  done  consistently,  and  all  the  notes 
of  nature  given  in  this  way  an  octave  or  two  down,  it  would 
„  ^    ,  ,  be  risrht  and  necessary  so  to  do  :  but  be  it  ob- 

§  5.   And  conse-  ^  «^ 

quently   totally  served,  not  onlv  does  nature  surpass  us  in  power 

false  in  relation      «     i       .    .        t    i  , 

of  middle  tints  oi  obtaining  light  as  much  as  the  sun  surpasses 

to  darkness.  ,  .  i     .      i  i 

white  paper,  but  she  also  mnnitely  surpasses 
us  in  her  power  of  shade.  Her  deepest  shades  are  void 
spaces  from  which  no  light  whatever  is  reflected  to  the  eye  ; 
ours  are  black  surfaces  from  which,  paint  as  black  as  we  may, 
a  great  deal  of  light  is  still  reflected,  and  which,  placed 
against  one  of  nature's  deep  bits  of  gloom,  would  tell  as  dis- 
tinct light.  Here  we  are  then,  with  white  paper  for  our 
highest  light,  and  visible  illumined  surface  for  our  deepest 
shadow,  set  to  run  the  gauntlet  against  nature,  with  the  sun 
for  her  light,  and  vacuity  for  her  gloom.  It  is  evident  that 
she  can  well  afford  to  throw  her  material  objects  dark  against 
the  brilliant  aerial  tone  of  her  sky,  and  yet  give  in  those  objects 
themselves  a  thousand  intermediate  distances  and  tones  be- 
fore she  comes  to  black,  or  to  anything  like  it — all  the  illum- 
ined surfaces  of  her  objects  being  as  distinctly  and  vividly 
brighter  than  her  nearest  and  darkest  shadows,  as  the  sky  is 
brighter  than  those  illumined  surfaces.  But  if  we,  against 
our  poor,  dull  obscurity  of  yellow  paint,  instead  of  sky,  in- 
sist on  having  the  same  relation  of  shade  in  material  objects, 
we  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  our  scale  at  once  ;  and  what 
in  the  world  are  we  to  do  then  ?  Where  are  all  our  inter- 
mediate distances  to  come  from  ? — how  are  we  to  express  the 
aerial  relations  among  the  parts  themselves,  for  instance,  of 
foliage,  whose  most  distant  boughs  are  already  almost  black  ? 
— how  are  we  to  come  up  from  this  to  the  foreground,  and 
when  we  have  done  so,  how  are  we  to  express  the  distinction 
between  its  solid  parts,  already  as  dark  as  we  can  make 
them,  and  its  vacant  hollows,  which  nature  has  marked  sharp 
and  clear  and  black,  among  its  lighted  surfaces  ?  It  cannot 
but  be  evident  at  a  glance,  that  if  to  any  one  of  the  steps 
from  one  distance  to  another,  we  give  the  same  quantity  of 
difference  in  pitch  of  shade  which  nature  does,  we  must  pay 
for  this  expenditure  of  our  means  by  totally  missing  half  a 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


213 


dozen  distances,  not  a  whit  less  important  or  marked,  and  so 
sacrifice  a  multitude  or  truths,  to  obtain  one.  And  this,  ac- 
cordingly was  the  means  by  which  the  old  masters  obtained 
their  (truth  ?)  of  tone.  They  chose  those  steps  of  distance 
which  are  the  most  conspicuous  and  noticeable — that  for  in- 
stance from  sky  to  foliage,  or  from  clouds  to  hills — and  they 
gave  these  their  precise  pitch  of  difference  in  shade  with 
exquisite  accuracy  of  imitation.  Their  means  were  then  ex- 
hausted, and  they  were  obliged  to  leave  their  trees  flat 
masses  of  mere  filled-up  outline,  and  to  omit  the  truths  of 
space  in  every  individual  part  of  their  picture  by  the  thou- 
sand. But  this  they  did  not  care  for  ;  it  saved  them  trouble; 
they  reached  their  grand  end,  imitative  effect  ;  they  thrust 
home  just  at  the  places  where  the  common  and  careless  eye 
looks  for  imitation,  and  they  attained  the  broadest  and  most 
faithful  appearance  of  truth  of  tone  which  art  can  exhibit. 

But  they  are  prodigals,  and  foolish  prodigals,  in  art  ;  they 
lavish  their  whole  means  to  get  one  truth,  and  leave  them- 
selves powerless  when  they  should  seize  a  thousand.  And  is  it 
„  _  ^      , .  ,     indeed  worthy  of  beinn;"  called  a  truth,  when  we 

§  6.  General  false-  ,  ^ 

hood  of  such  a  have  a  vast  history  s^iven  us  to  relate,  to  the 

system.  ,  .  ,  .  ,  t  • 

fulness  oi  which  neither  our  limits  nor  our 
language  are  adequate,  instead  of  giving  all  its  parts 
abridged  in  the  order  of  their  imj)ortance,  to  omit  or  deny 
the  greater  part  of  them,  that  we  may  dwell  with  verbal 
fidelity  on  two  or  three  ?  Nay,  the  very  truth  to  which  the 
rest  are  sacrificed  is  rendered  falsehood  by  their  absence,  the 
relation  of  the  tree  to  the  sky  is  marked  as  an  impossibility 
by  the  want  of  relation  of  its  parts  to  each  other. 

Turner  starts  from  the  beginning  with  a  totally  different 
principle.  He  boldly  takes  pure  white  (and  justly,  for  it  is 
the  sign  of  the  most  intense  sunbeams)  for  his  highest  light, 
§  7  The  principle  lamp-black  for  his  deepest  shade;  and 

of  Turner  in  this  between  thcsc  he  makes  every  deforce  of  shade 

respect.  ...  .  , 

indicative  of  a  separate  degree  of  distance,^' 

*  Of  course  I  am  not  speaking  here  of  treatment  of  chiaroscuro,  but 
of  that  quantity  of  depth  of  shade  by  which,  cwteris  paribus^  a  near 
object  will  exceed  a  distant  one.    For  the  truth  of  the  systems 


214 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


giving  each  step  of  approach,  not  the  exact  difference  in 
pitch  which  it  would  have  in  nature,  but  a  difference  bear- 
ing the  same  proportion  to  that  which  his  sum  of  possible 
shade  bears  to  the  sum  of  nature's  shade  ;  so  that  an  object 
half  way  between  his  horizon  and  his  foreground  will  be  ex- 
actly in  half  tint  of  force,  and  every  minute  division  of  in- 
termediate space  will  have  just  its  proportionate  share  of  the 
lesser  sum,  and  no  more.  Hence  where  the  old  masters  ex- 
pressed one  distance,  he  expresses  a  hundred  ;  and  where 
they  said  furlongs,  he  says  leagues.  Which  of  these  modes 
of  procedure  be  most  agreeable  with  truth,  I  think  I  may 
safely  leave  the  reader  to  decide  for  himself.  He  will  see  in 
this  very  first  instance,  one  proof  of  what  we  above  asserted, 
that  the  deceptive  imitation  of  nature  is  inconsistent  with 
real  truth  ;  for  the  very  means  by  which  the  old  masters  at- 
tained the  apparent  accuracy  of  tone  which  is  so  satisfying 
to  the  eye,  compelled  them  to  give  up  all  idea  of  real  rela- 
tions of  retirement,  and  to  represent  a  few  successive  and 
marked  stages  of  distance,  like  the  scenes  of  a  theatre,  in- 
stead of  the  imperceptible,  multitudinous,  symmetrical  re- 
tirement of  nature,  who  is  not  more  careful  to  separate  her 
nearest  bush  from  her  farthest  one,  than  to  separate  the 
nearest  bouo:h  of  that  bush  from  the  one  next  to  it. 

Take  for  instance,  one  of  the  finest  landscapes  that 
ancient  art  has  produced — the  work  of  a  really  great  and 
intellectual  mind,  the  quiet  Nicholas  Poussin,  in  our  own 
^  ^  „       .      National  Gallery,  with  the  traveller  washing: 

§  8.  Comparison      ^  .  .  , 

of  N.  Poiissin's  his  feet.    The  first  idea  we  receive  from  this 

*'Phocion,"  .  .       ,        .     .  .  T     n     1      T  1 

picture  ]s,  that  it  is  evening,  and  all  the  light 
coming  from  the  horizon.  Not  so.  It  is  full  moon,  the 
light  coming  steep  from  the  left,  as  is  shown  by  the  shadow 
of  the  stick  on  the  right-hand  pedestal — (for  if  the  sun 
were  not  very  high,  that  shadow  could  not  lose  itself  half 
way  down,  and  if  it  w^ere  not  lateral,  the  shadow  would 
slope,  instead  of  being  vertical).  Now,  ask  yourself,  and 
answer  candidly,  if  those  black  masses  of  foliage,  in  which 

of  Turner  and  the  old  masters,  as  regards  chiaroscuro,  vide  Chapter 
III.  of  this  Section,  §  8. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


215 


scarcely  any  form  is  seen  but  the  outline,  be  a  true  represen- 
tation of  trees  under  noon-day  sunlight,  sloping  from  tlie 
left,  bringing  out,  as  it  necessarily  would  do,  their  masses 
into  golden  green,  and  marking  every  leaf  and  bough  with 
sharp  shadow  and  sparkling  light.  The  only  truth  in  the 
picture  is  the  exact  pitch  of  relief  against  the  sky  of  both 
trees  and  hills,  and  to  this  the  organization  of  the  hills,  the 
intricacy  of  the  foliage,  and  everything  indicative  either  of 
the  nature  of  the  light,  or  the  character  of  the  objects,  are 
unhesitatingly  sacrificed.  So  much  falsehood  does  it  cost  to 
obtain  two  apparent  truths  of  tone.  Or  take,  as  a  still  more 
glaring  instance.  No.  260  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  where  the 
trunks  of  the  trees,  even  of  those  farthest  off,  on  the  left,  are 
as  black  as  paint  can  make  them,  and  there  is  not,  and 
cannot  be,  the  slightest  increase  of  force,  or  any  marking 
whatsoever  of  distance  by  color,  or  any  other  means, 
between  them  and  the  foreground. 

Compare  with  these  Turner's  treatment  of  his  materials  in 
the  Mercury  and  Argus.    He  has  here  his  light  actually  com- 
ing from  the  distance,  the  sun  being  nearly  in  the  centre  of 
the  picture,  and  a  violent  relief  of  objects  ao-ainst 

§ 9.  With  Turner's  .  i    i    %  •     ^' n  •     "D         •  5 

"  Mercury  and  it  would  be  lar  more  justiiiable  than  m  Foussm  s 
case.  But  this  dark  relief  is  used  in  its  full  force 
only  with  the  nearest  leaves  of  the  nearest  group  of  foliage 
overhanging  the  foreground  from  the  left ;  and  between  these 
and  the  more  distant  members  of  the  same  group,  though  only 
three  or  four  yards  separate,  distinct  aerial  perspective  and 
intervening  mist  and  light  are  shown  ;  while  the  large  tree 
in  the  centre,  though  very  dark,  as  being  very  near,  compared 
with  all  the  distance,  is  much  diminished  in  intensity  of  shade 
from  this  nearest  group  of  leaves,  and  is  faint  compared  with 
all  the  foreground.  It  is  true  that  this  tree  has  not,  in  con- 
sequence, the  actual  pitch  of  shade  against  the  sky  which  it 
would  have  in  nature  ;  but  it  has  precisely  as  much  as  it  pos- 
sibly can  have,  to  leave  it  the  same  proportionate  relation  to 
the  objects  near  at  hand.  And  it  cannot  but  be  evident  to 
the  thoughtful  reader,  that  whatever  trickery  or  deception 
may  be  the  result  of  a  contrary  mode  of  treatment,  this  is  the 


216  OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 

only  scientific  or  essentially  truthful  system,  and  that  what 
it  loses  in  tone  it  gains  in  aerial  perspective. 

Compare  again  the  last  vignette  in  Rogers's  Poems,  the 
"Datur  Hora  Quieti,"  where  everything,  even  the  darkest 
parts  of  the  trees,  is  kept  pale  and  full  of  graduation  ;  even 

the  bridge  where  it  crosses  the  descending  stream 
^'Dca^^^Hora*  ^  of  sunshiuc,  rather  lost  in  the  light  than  relieved 

against  it,  until  we  come  up  to  the  foreground, 
and  then  the  vigorous  local  black  of  the  plough  throws  the 
whole  picture  into  distance  and  sunshine.  I  do  not  know 
anything  in  art  which  can  for  a  moment  be  set  beside  this 
drawing  for  united  intensity  of  light  and  repose. 

Observe,  I  am  not  at  present  speaking  of  the  beauty  or  de- 
sirableness of  the  system  of  the  old  masters  ;  it  may  be  sub- 
lime, and  affecting,  and  ideal,  and  intellectual,  and  a  great 
deal  more ;  but  all  I  am  concerned  with  at  present  is,  that  it 
is  not  true ;  while  Turner's  is  the  closest  and  most  studied 
approach  to  truth  of  which  the  materials  of  art  admit. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  with  reference  to  this  division  of  the 
subject  that  I  admitted  inferiority  in  our  great  modern  master 
to  Claude  or  Poussin,  but  with  reference  to  the  second  and 

more  usual  meaning  of  the  word  'Hone" — the 
senVe  S^he^word  exact  relation  and  fitness  of  shadow  and  light, 

and  of  the  hues  of  all  objects  under  them  ;  and 
more  especially  that  precious  quality  of  each  color  laid  on, 
which  makes  it  appear  a  quiet  color  illuminated,  not  a  bright 
color  in  shade.  But  I  allow  this  inferiority  only  with  respect 
to  the  paintings,  of  Turner,  not  to  his  drawings,  I  could  se- 
§  12.  Remarkable  Icct  from  among  the  works  named  in  Chap.  VI. 

difference  in  this      p  •  n  ^  ^      ^    j.  ^     £  ^,^ 

respect  between  01  this  section,  pieccs  OI  tone  absolutely  laultless 
drawings  of '''''^  and  perfect,  from  the  coolest  grays  of  wintry 
Turner.  dawn  to  the  intense  fire  of  summer  noon.  And 

the  difference  between  the  prevailing  character  of  these  and 
that  of  nearly  all  the  paintings,  (for  the  early  oil  pictures  of 
Turner  are  far  less  perfect  in  tone  than  the  most  recent,)  it 
is  difficult  to  account  for,  but  on  the  supposition  that  there 
is  something  in  the  material  which  modern  artists  in  general 
are  incapable  of  mastering,  and  which  compels  Turner  him- 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


217 


self  to  think  less  of  tone  in  oil  color,  than  of  other  and  more 
important  qualities.  Tlie  total  failures  of  Callcott,  whose 
struggles  after  tone  ended  so  invariably  in  shivering  winter 
or  brown  paint,  the  misfortune  of  Landseer  with  his  evening 
sky  in  1842,  the  frigidity  of  Stanfield,  and  the  earth iness  and 
opacity  which  all  the  magnificent  power  and  admirable  science 
of  Etty  are  unable  entirely  to  conquer,  are  too  fatal  and  con- 
vincing proofs  of  the  want  of  knowledge  of  means,  rather 
than  of  the  absence  of  aim,  in  modern  artists  as  a  body.  Yet, 
with  respecfc  to  Turner,  however  much  the  want 

want'of^power^^^  of  toue  in  llis  early  paintings  (the  Fall  of  Car- 
over  the  material.  ,1  £      '     J.  Ixl-  '   1.    1     1.  i.' 

thage,  tor  instance,  and  others  painted  at  a  time 
when  he  was  producing  the  most  exquisite  hues  of  light  in 
water-color)  might  seem  to  favor  such  a  supposition,  there 
are  passages  in  his  recent  w^orks  (such,  for  instance,  as  the 
sunlight  along  the  sea,  in  the  Slaver)  which  directly  con- 
tradict it,  and  which  prove  to  us  that  where  he  now  errs  in 
tone,  (as  in  the  Cicero's  Villa,)  it  is  less  owing  to  want  of 
powder  to  reach  it,  than  to  the  pursuit  of  some  different  and 
nobler  end.  I  shall  therefore  glance  at  the  particular  modes 
in  which  Turner  manages  his  tone  in  his  present  Academy 
pictures  ;  the  early  ones  must  be  given  up  at  once.  Place  a 
genuine  untouched  Claude  beside  the  Crossing  the  Brook, 
and  the  difference  in  value  and  tenderness  of  tone  will  be  felt 
in  an  instant,  and  felt  the  more  painfully  because  all  the  cool 
and  transparent  qualities  of  Claude  would  have  been  here 
desirable,  and  in  their  place,  and  appear  to  have  been  aimed 
at.  The  foreground  of  the  Building  of  Carthage,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  architecture  of  the  Fall,  are  equally  heavy 
and  evidently  paint,  if  we  compare  them  with  genuine  pas- 
sages of  Claude's  sunshine.  There  is  a  very  grand  and  simple 
piece  of  tone  in  the  possession  of  J.  Allnutt,  Esq.,  a  sunset 
behind  willows,  but  even  this  is  wanting  in  refinement  of 
shadow,  and  is  crude  in  its  extreme  distance.  Not  so  with 
the  recent  Academy  pictures  ;  many  of  their  passages  are 
absolutely  faultless  ;  all  are  refined  and  marvellous,  and  with 
the  exception  of  the  Cicero's  Villa,  we  shall  find  few^  pictures 
painted  within  the  last  ten  years  which  do  not  either  present 


21S 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


us  with  perfect  tone,  or  with  some  higher  beauty,  to  which  it 
is  necessarily  sacrificed.  If  we  glance  at  the  requirements  of 
nature,  and  her  superiority  of  means  to  ours,  we  shall  see  why 
and  how  it  is  sacrificed. 

Light,  with  reference  to  the  tone  it  induces  on  objects,  is 
either  to  be  considered  as  neutral  and  white,  bringing  out 
locaj  colors  with  fidelity  ;  or  colored,  and  consequently  modi- 
§  14.  The  two  fyii^o  these  local  tints,  with  its  own.  But  the 
Sii'gitTo'^l  power  of  pure  white  light  to  exhibit  local  color 
considered.  jg  strangely  Variable.  The  morning  light  of 
about  nine  or  ten  is  usually  very  pure  ;  but  the  difference  of 
its  effect  on  different  days,  independently  of  mere  brilliancy, 
is  as  inconceivable  as  inexplicable.  Every  one  knows  how 
capriciously  the  colors  of  a  fine  opal  vary  from  day  to  day, 
and  how  rare  the  lights  are  which  bring  them  fully  out.  Now 
the  expression  of  the  strange,  penetrating,  deep,  neutral 
light,  which,  while  it  alters  no  color,  brings  every  color  up  to 
the  highest  possible  pitch  and  key  of  pure,  harmonious  in- 
tensity, is  the  chief  attribute  of  finely-toned  pictures  by  the 
great  colorists  as  opposed  to  pictures  of  equally  high  tone, 
by  masters  who,  careless  of  color,  are  content,  like  Cuyp,  to 
lose  local  tints  in  the  golden  blaze  of  absorbing  light. 

Falsehood,  in  this  neutral  tone,  if  it  may  be  so  called,  is  a 
matter  far  more  of  feeling  than  of  proof,  for  any  color  is  pos- 
sible under  such  lights  ;  it  is  meagreness  and  feebleness  only 
o..  -r.  ,  ^  .    which  are  to  be  avoided  :  and  these  are  rather 

§  15.  Falsehoods  ,  ' 

by  which  Titian  matters  of  sensation  than  of  reasoning.    But  it 

attains  the  ap-    ,  . 

pearance  of  qual-  IS  yet  easy  cnougb  to  prove  by  what  exagger- 
ityinhght.  atcd  and  false  means  the  pictures  most  cele- 
brated for  this  quality  are  endowed  with  their  richness  and 
solemnity  of  color.  In  the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  of  Titian, 
it  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more  magnificently  impos- 
sible than  the  blue  of  the  distant  landscape  ; — impossible, 
not  from  its  vividness,  but  because  it  is  not  faint  and  aerial 
enough  to  account  for  its  purity  of  color  ;  it  is  too  dark  and 
blue  at  the  same  time  ;  and  there  is  indeed  so  total  a  want  of 
atmosphere  in  it,  that,  but  for  the  difference  of  form,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  tell  the  mountains  (intended  to  be  ten  miles 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE, 


219 


off)  from  the  robe  of  Ariadne  close  to  the  spectator.  Yet 
make  this  bhie  faint,  aerial,  and  distant — make  it  in  the  slight- 
est degree  to  resemble  the  truth  of  nature's  color — and  all 
the  tone  of  the  picture,  all  its  intensity  and  splendor,  will  van- 
ish on  the  instant.  So  again,  in  the  exquisite  and  inimitable 
little  bit  of  color,  the  Europa  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery;  the  blue 
of  the  dark  promontory  on  the  left  is  thoroughly  absurd  and 
impossible,  and  the  warm  tones  of  the  clouds  equally  so,  unless 
it  were  sunset  ;  but  the  blue  especially,  because  it  is  nearer 
than  several  points  of  land  which  are  equally  in  shadow,  and 
yet  are  rendered  in  warm  gray.  But  the  whole  value  and  tone 
of  the  picture  would  be  destroyed  if  this  blue  were  altered. 

Now,  as  much  of  this  kind  of  richness  of  tone  is  always 
given  by  Turner  as  is  compatible  with  truth  of  aerial  effect ; 
but  he  will  not  sacrifice  the  higher  truths  of  his  landscape  to 
mere  pitch  of  color  as  Titian  does.    He  in- 

§16.  Turner  will    ^    ..    i  «         ,       .  -P      •  • 

not  use  such  hnitcly  prefers  having  the  power  oi  giving  ex- 
tension  of  space,  and  fulness  of  form,  to  that  of 
giving  deep  melodies  of  tone  ;  he  feels  too  much  the  inca- 
pacity of  art,  with  its  feeble  means  of  light,  to  give  the  abun- 
dance of  nature's  gradations  ;  and  therefore  it  is,  that  taking 
pure  white  for  his  highest  expression  of  light,  that  even  pure 
yellow  may  give  him  one  more  step  in  the  scale  of  shade,  he 
becomes  necessarily  inferior  in  richness  of  effect  to  the  old 
masters  of  tone,  (who  always  used  a  golden  highest  light,)  but 
gains  by  the  sacrifice  a  thousand  more  essential  truths.  For, 
§  17  But  gains  ^^^^^^  ^®  know  how  much  more  like  light, 
in  essential  truth  in  the  abstract,  a  finely-toned  warm  hue  will  be 

by  the  sacrifice.  ,       ^  . 

to  the  feelings  than  white,  yet  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible to  mark  the  same  number  of  gradations  between 
such  a  sobered  high  light  and  the  deepest  shadow,  which  we 
can  between  this  and  white  ;  and  as  these  gradations  are 
absolutely  necessary  to  give  the  facts  of  form  and  distance, 
which,  as  we  have  above  shown,  are  more  important  than  any 
truths  of  tone,*  Turner  sacrifices  the  richness  of  his  picture 

*  More  important,  observe,  as  matters  of  truth  or  fact.  It  may  often 
chance  that,  as  a  matter  of  feeling,  the  tone  is  the  more  important  of 
the  two  ;  but  with  this  we  have  here  no  concern. 


220 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


to  its  completeness — the  manner  of  the  statement  to  its  mat- 
ter. And  not  only  is  he  right  in  doing  this  for  the  sake  of 
space,  but  he  is  right  also  in  the  abstract  question  of  color  ; 
for  as  we  observed  above  (Sect.  14,)  it  is  only  the  white  light 
— the  perfect  unmodified  group  of  rays — which  will  bring 
out  local  color  perfectly  ;  and  if  the  picture,  therefore,  is  to 
be  complete  in  its  system  of  -color,  that  is,  if  it  is  to  have 
each  of  the  three  primitives  in  their  purity,  it  must  have  white 
for  its  highest  light,  otherwise  the  purity  of  one  of  them  at 
least  will  be  impossible.  And  this  leads  us  to  notice  the 
§18  The  second  sccond  and  more  frequent  quality  of  light, 
quality  of  light,  (which  is  assumcd  if  we  make  our  highest  repre- 
sentation of  it  yellow,)  the  positive  hue,  namely,  which  it 
may  itself  possess,  of  course  modifying  whatever  local  tints 
it  exhibits,  and  thereby  rendering  certain  colors  necessary, 
and  certain  colors  impossible.  Under  the  direct  yellow  light 
of  a  descending  sun,  for  instance,  pure  white  and  pure  blue 
are  both  impossible  ;  because  the  purest  whites  and  blues 
that  nature  could  produce  would  be  turned  in  some  degree 
into  gold  or  green  by  it ;  and  when  the  sun  is  within  half  a  de- 
gree of  the  horizon,  if  the  sky  be  clear,  a  rose  light  supersedes 
the  golden  one,  still  more  overwhelming  in  its  effect  on  local 
color.  I  have  seen  the  pale  fresh  green  of  spring  vegetation 
in  the  gardens  of  Venice,  on  the  Lido  side,  turned  pure  rus- 
set, or  between  that  and  crimson,  by  a  vivid  sunset  of  this 
kind,  every  particle  of  green  color  being  absolutely  anni- 
hilated. And  so  under  all  colored  lights,  (and  there  are  few, 
from  dawn  to  twilight,  which  are  not  slightly  tinted  by  some 
accident  of  atmosphere,)  there  is  a  change  of  local  color, 
which,  when  in  a  picture  it  is  so  exactly  proportioned  that 
we  feel  at  once  both  what  the  local  colors  are  in  themselves, 
and  what  is  the  color  and  strength  of  the  light  upon  them, 
gives  us  truth  of  tone. 

For  expression  of  effects  of  yellow  sunlight,  parts  might 
be  chosen  out  of  the  good  pictures  of  Cuyp,  which  have 
never  been  equalled  in  art.  But  I  much  doubt  if  there  be  a 
single  bright  Cuyp  in  the  world,  which,  taken  as  a  whole, 
does  not  present  many  glaring  solecims  in  tone.    I  have  not 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


221 


seen  many  fine  pictures  of  his,  which  were  not  utterly 
spoiled  by  the  vermilion  dress  of  some  principal  figure,  a 
vermilion  totally  unaffected  and  un warmed  by  the  golden 
§  19.  The  perfec-  hue  of  the  rest  of  the  picture  ;  and,  what  is 
th£  ?espec^t^in-  worse,  with  little  distinction,  between  its  own 
terfered  with  by  illumined  and  shaded  parts,  so  that  it  appears 

numerous    sole-  .  . 

cisms.  altogether  out  of  sunshine,  the  color  of  a  bright 

vermilion  in  dead,  cold  daylight.  It  is  possible  that  the 
original  color  may  have  gone  down  in  all  cases,  or  that  these 
parts  may  have  been  villanously  repainted  :  but  I  am  the 
rather  disposed  to  believe  them  genuine,  because  even 
throughout  the  best  of  his  pictures  there  are  evident  recurren- 
ces of  the  same  kind  of  solecism  in  other  colors — greens  for  in- 
stance— as  in  the  steep  bank  on  the  right  of  the  largest  pict- 
ure in  the  Dulwich  Gallery  ;  and  browns,  as  in  the  lying  cow 
in  the  same  picture,  which  is  in  most  visible  and  painful 
contrast  with  the  one  standing  beside  it,  the  flank  of  the 
standino;  one  beinsr  bathed  in  breathins:  sunshine,  and  the 
reposing  one  laid  in  with  as  dead,  opaque,  and  lifeless  brown 
as  ever  came  raw  from  a  novice's  pallet.  And  again,  in  that 
marked  83,  while  the  fissures  on  the  risrht  are  walkino^  in  the 
most  precious  light,  and  those  just  beyond  them  in  the  dis- 
tance leave  a  furlong  or  two  of  pure  visible  sunbeams  be- 
tween us  and  them,  the  cows  in  the  centre  are  entirely 
deprived,  poor  things,  of  both  light  and  air.  And  these 
failing  parts,, though  they  often  escape  the  eye  when  we  are 
near  the  picture  and  able  to  dwell  upon  what  is  beautiful  in 
it,  yet  so  injure  its  whole  effect  that  I  question  if  there  be 
many  Cuyps  in  which  vivid  colors  occur,  which  will  not  lose 
their  effect,  and  become  cold  and  flat  at  a  distance  of  ten  or 
twelve  paces,  retaining  their  influence  only  when  the  eye  is 
close  enough  to  rest  on  the  right  parts  without  including 
the  whole.  Take,  for  instance,  the  large  one  in  our  National 
Gallery,  seen  from  the  opposite  door,  where  the  black  cow 
appears  a  great  deal  nearer  than  the  dogs,  and  the  golden 
tones  of  the  distance  look  like  a  sepia  drawing  rather  than 
like  sunshine,  owing  chiefly  to  the  utter  want  of  aerial  grays 
indicated  throus^h  them. 


222 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


Now,  there  is  no  instance  in  the  works  of  Turner  of  any- 
thing so  faithful  and  imitative  of  sunshine  as  the  best  parts 
of  Cuyp  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  there  is  not  a  single  vestige 
of  the  same  kind  of  solecism.  It  is  true,  that  in  his  fondness 
§  20.  Turner  is  for  color,  Turner  is  in  the  habit  of  allowing  ex- 
pa^tP— ^a?^more  cessivelj  cold  fragments  in  his  warmest  pictures  ; 
so  111  the  whole.  |^^^  these  are  never,  observe,  warm  colors  with 
no  light  upon  them,  useless  as  contrasts  while  they  are  dis- 
cords in  the  tone  ;  but  they  are  bits  of  the  very  coolest  tints, 
partially  removed  from  the  general  influence,  and  exquisitely 
valuable  as  color,  though,  with  all  deference  be  it  spoken,  I 
think  them  sometimes  slightly  destructive  of  what  would 
otherwise  be  perfect  tone.  For  instance,  the  two  blue  and 
white  stripes  on  the  drifting  flag  of  the  Slave  Ship,  are,  I 
think,  the  least  degree  too  purely  cool.  I  think  both  the 
blue  and  white  would  be  impossible  under  such  a  light  ;  and 
in  the  same  way  the  white  parts  of  the  dress  of  the  Napoleon 
interfered  by  their  coolness  with  the  perfectly  managed 
warmtlf  of  all  the  rest  of  the  picture.  But  both  these  lights 
are  reflexes,  and  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  say  what  tones 
may  be  assumed  even  by  the  warmest  light  reflected  from  a 
cool  surface  ;  so  that  we  cannot  actually  convict  these  parts 
of  falsehood,  and  though  we  should  have  liked  the  tone  of 
the  picture  better  had  they  been  slightly  warmer  we  cannot 
but  like  the  color  of  the  picture  better  with  them  as  they  are  ; 
while  Cuyp's  failing  portions  are  not  only  e^^idently  and 
demonstrably  false,  being  in  direct  light,  but  are  as  disagree- 
able in  color  as  false  in  tone,  and  injurious  to  everything 
near  them.  And  the  best  proof  of  the  grammatical  accu- 
racy of  the  tones  of  Turner  is  in  the  perfect  and  unchanging 
influence  of  all  his  pictures  at  any  distance.  We  approach 
only  to  follow  the  sunshine  into  every  cranny  of  the  leafage, 
and  retire  only  to  feel  it  dilfused  over  the  scene,  the  whole 
picture  glowing  like  a  sun  or  star  at  whatever  distance  we 
stand,  and  lighting  the  air  between  us  and  it  ;  while  many 
even  of  the  best  pictures  of  Claude  must  be  looked  close  into 
to  be  felt,  and  lose  light  every  foot  that  we  retire.  The 
smallest  of  the  three  seaports  in  the  National  Gallery  is  valu' 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


223 


able  and  right  in  tone  when  we  are  close  to  it  ;  but  ten 
yards  off,  it  is  all  brick-dust,  offensively  and  evidently  false 
in  its  whole  hue. 

The  comparison  of  Turner  with  Cuyp  and  Claude  may 
sound  strange  in  most  ears  ;  but  this  is  chiefly  because  we 
are  not  in  the  habit  of  analyzing  and  dwelling  upon  those 
§  21  The  pow-  difficult  and  daring  passages  of  the  modern  mas- 
er  in  Turner  of  ^^j,  which  do  not  at  first  appeal  to  our  ordinary 

uniting  a  num-  ^  .  ,  .  *^ 

ber  of  tones.  notions  of  truth,  owing  to  his  habit  of  uniting 
two,  three,  or  even  more  separate  tones  in  the  same  com- 
position. In  this  also  he  strictly  follows  nature,  for  wher- 
ever climate  changes,  tone  changes,  and  the  climate  changes 
with  every  200  feet  of  elevation,  so  that  the  upper  clouds  are 
always  different  in  tone  from  the  lower  ones,  these  from  the 
rest  of  the  landscape,  and  in  all  probability,  some  part  of  the 
horizon  from  the  rest.  And  when  nature  allows  this  in  a 
high  degree,  as  in  her  most  gorgeous  effects  she  always  will, 
she  does  not  herself  impress  at  once  with  intensity  of  tone, 
as  in  the  deep  and  quiet  yellows  of  a  July  evening,  but 
rather  with  the  magnificence  and  variety  of  associated  color, 
in  which,  if  we  give  time  and  attention  to  it,  we  shall  gradu- 
ally find  the  solemnity  and  the  depth  of  twenty  tones  instead 
of  one.  Now  in  Turner's  power  of  associating  cold  with 
warm  light,  no  one  has  ever  approached,  or  even  ventured 
into  the  same  field  with  him.  The  old  masters,  content  with 
one  simple  tone,  sacrificed  to  its  unity  all  the  exquisite  grada- 
tions and  varied  touches  of  relief  and  change  by  which  nature 
unites  her  hours  with  each  other.  They  gave  the  warmth  of 
the  sinking  sun,  overwhelming  all  things  in  its  gold ;  but 
they  did  not  give  those  gray  passages  about  the  horizon 
where,  seen  through  its  dying  light,  the  cool  and  the  gloom 
of  night  gather  themselves  for  their  victory.  Whether  it 
was  in  them  impotence  or  judgment,  it  is  not  for  me  to  de- 
cide. ]*have  only  to  point  to  the  daring  of  Turner  in  this 
respect,  as  something  to  which  art  affords  no  matter  of  com- 
parison, as  that  in  which  the  mere  attempt  is,  in  itself,  superi- 
ority. Take  the  evening  effect  with  the  Temeraire.  That 
picture  will  not,  at  the  first  glance,  deceive  as  a  piece  of 


224 


OF  TRUTH  OF  TONE. 


actual  sunlight  ;  but  this  is  because  there  is  in  it  more  than 

sunlight,  because  under  the  blazing  veil  of  vaulted  fire 

which  lights  the  vessel  on  her  last  path,  there  is  a  blue,  deep, 

desolate  hollow  of  darkness,  out  of  which  you  can  hear  the 

voice  of  the  night  wind,  and  the  dull  boom  of  the  disturbed 

sea  ;  because  the  oold,  deadly  shadows  of  the  twilight  are 

gathering  through  every  sunbeam,  and  moment  by  moment 

as  you  look,  you  will  fancy  some  new  film  and  faintness  of 

the  night  has  risen  over  the  vastness  of  the  departing  form. 

And  if,  in  effects  of  this  kind,  time  be  taken  to  dwell 

upon  the  individual  tones,  and  to  study  the  laws  of  their 

reconcilement,  there  will  be  found  in  the  recent  Academy 

§  22.  Recapitu-  pictures  of  this  great  artist  a  mass  of  various 

lation.  truth  to  which  nothinoc  can  be  brous^ht  for  corn- 

er o 

parison,  which  stands  not  only  unrivalled,  but  uncontended 
with,  and  which,  when  in  carrying  out  it  may  be  inferior  to 
some  of  the  picked  passages  of  the  old  masters,  is  so  through 
deliberate  choice  rather  to  suggest  a  multitude  of  truths  than 
to  imitate  one,  and  through  a  strife  with  difficulties  of  effect 
of  which  art  can  afford  no  parallel  example.  Nay,  in  the 
next  chapter,  respecting  color,  we  shall  see  farther  rea- 
son for  doubting  the  truth  of  Claude,  Cuyp,  and  Poussin,  in 
tone, — reason  so  palpable  that  if  these  were  all  that  were 
to  be  contended  with,  I  should  scarcely  have  allowed  any 
inferiority  in  Turner  whatsoever  ;  *  but  I  allow  it,  not  so 
much  with  reference  to  the  deceptive  imitations  of  sunlight, 
wrought  out  with  desperate  exaggerations  of  shade,  of  the 
professed  landscape  painters,  as  with  reference  to  the  glory 
of  Rubens,  the  glow  of  Titian,  the  silver  tenderness  of  Cagli- 
ari,  and  perhaps  more  than  all  to  the  precious  and  pure  pas- 
sages of  intense  feeling  and  heavenly  light,  holy  and  unde- 

*  We  must  not  leave  the  subject  of  tone  without  alluding  to  the  works 
of  the  late  George  Barrett,  which  afford  glorious  and  exalted^passages 
of  light ;  and  John  Varley,  who,  though  less  truthful  in  his  aim,  was 
frequently  deep  in  his  feeling.  Some  of  the  sketches  of  De  Wint  are 
also  admirable  in  this  respect.  As  for  our  oil  pictures,  the  less  that  is 
said  about  them  the  better.  Callcott  has  the  truest  aim  ;  but  not  hav- 
ing any  eye  for  color,  it  is  imijossible  for  him  to  succeed  in  tone. 


OF  TBUTU  OF  COLOR, 


225 


filed,  and  glorious  with  the  changeless  passion  of  eternity, 
which  sanctify  with  their  shadeless  peace  the  deep  and  noble 
conceptions  of  the  early  school  of  Italy, — of  Fra  Bartolomeo, 
Perugino,  and  the  early  mind  of  Raffaelle. 


CHAPTER  11. 

OP  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 

There  is,  in  the  first  room  of  the  National  Gallery,  a  land- 
scape attributed  to  Gaspar  Poussin,  called  sometimes  Aricia, 
sometimes  Le  or  La  Riccia,  according  to  the  fancy  of  cata- 
§  1.  Observations  logue  printers.  Whether  it  can  be  supposed 
gT  Poussin'?  La  resemble  the  ancient  Aricia,  now  La  Riccia, 
i^ccia.  close  to  Albano,  I  will  not  take  upon  me  to 

determine,  seeing  that  most  of  the  towns  of  these  old  mas- 
ters are  quite  as  like  one  place  as  another  ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
it  is  a  town  on  a  hill,  wooded  with  two-and-thirty  bushes,  of 
very  uniform  size,  and  possessing  about  the  same  number  of 
leaves  each.  These  bushes  are  all  painted  in  with  one  dull 
opaque  brown,  becoming  very  slightly  greenish  towards  the 
lights,  and  discover  in  one  place  a  bit  of  rock,  which  of 
course  would  in  nature  have  been  cool  and  gray  beside  the 
lustrous  hues  of  foliage,  and  which,  therefore,  being  more- 
over completely  in  shade,  is  consistently  and  scientifi- 
cally painted  of  a  very  clear,  pretty,  and  positive  brick-red, 
the  only  thing  like  color  in  the  picture.  The  foreground  is 
a  piece  of  road,  which  in  order  to  make  allowance  for  its 
greater  nearness,  for  its  being  completely  in  light,  and,  it 
may  be  presumed,  for  the  quantity  of  vegetation  usually 
present  on  carriage-roads,  is  given  in  a  very  cool  green  gray, 
and  the  truth  of  the  picture  is  completed  by  a  number  of 
dots  in  the  sky  on  the  right,  with  a  stalk  to  them,  of  a  sober 
and  similar  brown. 

Not  lone;  asro,  I  was  slowly  descendino;  this 

§2.  As  compared  U'^-     1  '  A  C     ^  ^ 

Witt  the  actual  Very  bit  oi  camage-road,  the  nrst  turn  alter 
^^^^^*  you  leave  Albano,  not  a  little  impeded  by  tlie 

Vol.  I.— 15 


226 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COL  OB, 


worthy  successors  of  the  ancient  prototypes  of  Veiento.*  It 
had  been  wild  weather  when  I  left  Rome,  and  all  across  the 
Campagna  the  clouds  were  sweeping  in  sulphurous  blue, 
with  a  clap  of  thunder  or  two,  and  breaking  gleams  of  sun 
along  the  Claudian  aqueduct  lighting  up  the  infinity  of  its 
arches  like  the  bridge  of  chaos.  But  as  I  climbed  the  long 
slope  of  the  Alban  mount,  the  storm  swept  finally  to  the 
north,  and  the  noble  outline  of  the  domes  of  Albano  and 
graceful  darkness  of  its  ilex  grove  rose  against  pure  streaks 
of  alternate  blue  and  amber,  the  upper  sky  gradually  flush- 
ing through  the  last  fragments  of  rain-cloud  in  deep,  palpi- 
tating azure,  half  ether  and  half  dew.  The  noon-day  sun 
came  slanting  down  the  rocky  slopes  of  La  Riccia,  and  its 
masses  of  entangled  and  tall  foliage,  whose  autumnal  tints 
were  mixed  with  the  wet  verdure  of  a  thousand  evergreens, 
were  penetrated  with  it  as  with  rain.  I  cannot  call  it  color, 
it  was  conflagration.  Purple,  and  crimson,  and  scarlet,  like 
the  curtains  of  God's  tabernacle,  the  rejoicing  trees  sank 
into  the  valley  in  showers  of  light,  every  separate  leaf  quiv- 
ering with  buoyant  and  burning  life ;  each,  as  it  turned  to 
reflect  or  to  transmit  the  sunbeam,  first  a  torch  and  then  an 
emerald.  Far  up  into  the  recesses  of  the  valley,  the  green 
vistas  arched  like  the  hollows  of  mighty  waves  of  some  crys- 
talline sea,  with  the  arbutus  flowers  dashed  along  their  flanks 
for  foam,  and  silver  flakes  of  orange  spray  tossed  into  the 
air  around  them,  breaking  over  the  gray  walls  of  rock  into  a 
thousand  separate  stars,  fading  and  kindling  alternately  as 
the  weak  wind  lifted  and  let  them  fall.  Every  glade  of 
grass  burned  like  the  golden  floor  of  heaven,  opening  in 
sudden  gleams  as  the  foliage  broke  and  closed  above  it,  as 
sheet-lighting  opens  in  a  cloud  at  sunset  ;  the  motionless 
masses  of  dark  rock — dark  though  flushed  with  scarlet 
lichen, — casting  their  quiet  shadows  across  its  restless  radi- 
ance, the  fountain  underneath  them  filling  its  marble  hollow 
with  blue  mist  and  fitful  sound,  and  over  all — the  multitudi- 

*  '*  Caecus  adulator — 

Dignus  Aricinos  qui  mendicaret  ad  axes, 
Blandaque  devexaj  jactaret  batia  rhedse.*' 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


227 


nous  bars  of  amber  and  rose,  the  sacred  clouds  that  have  no 
darkness,  and  only  exist  to  illumine,  were  seen  in  fathomless 
intervals  between  the  solemn  and  orbed  repose  of  the  stone 
pines,  passing  to  lose  themselves  in  the  last,  white,  blinding 
lustre  of  the  measureless  line  where  the  Campagna  melted 
into  the  blaze  of  the  sea. 

Tell  me  who  is  likest  this,  Poussin  or  Turner  ?  Not  in  his 
most  daring  and  dazzling  efforts  could  Turner  himself  come 
near  it  ;  but  you  could  not  at  the  time  have  thought  or  re- 
membered the  work  of  any  other  man  as  having  the  remotest 
§  3.  Tiiraer  him-  resemblance  of  what  you  saw.    Nor  am 

briUiancy^to  na^  ^  Speaking  of  what  is  uncommou  or  unnatural  ; 

there  is  no  climate,  no  place,  and  scarcely  an 
hour,  in  which  nature  does  not  exhibit  color  which  no  mortal 
effort  can  imitate  or  approach.  For  all  our  artificial  pig- 
ments are,  even  when  seen  under  the  same  circumstances, 
dead  and  lightless  beside  her  living  color  ;  the  green  of  a 
growing  leaf,  the  scarlet  of  a  fresh  flower,  no  art  nor  ex- 
pedient can  reach  ;  but  in  addition  to  this,  nature  exhibits 
her  hues  under  an  intensity  of  sunlight  which  trebles  their 
brilliancy,  while  the  painter,  deprived  of  this  splendid  aid, 
works  still  with  what  is  actually  a  gray  shadow  compared  to 
the  force  of  nature's  color.  Take  a  blade  of  grass  and  a 
scarlet  flower,  and  place  them  so  as  to  receive  sunlight  be- 
side the  brightest  canvas  that  ever  left  Turner's  easel,  and 
the  picture  will  be  extinguished.  So  far  from  out-facing 
nature,  he  does  not,  as  far  as  mere  vividness  of  color  goes, 
one-half  reach  her  ; — but  does  he  use  this  brilliancy  of  color 
on  objects  to  which  it  does  not  properly  belong  ?  Let  us 
compare  his  works  in  this  respect  with  a  few  instances  from 
the  old  masters. 

There  is,  on  the  left  hand  side  of  Salvator's  Mercury  and 
the  Woodman  in  our  National  Gallery,  something,  without 
doubt  intended  for  a  rocky  mountain,  in  the  middle  distance, 
near  enough  for  all  its  fissures  and  crags  to  be 
colors  of  saiva-  distinctly  visible,  or,  rather,  for  a  great  many 
tor,  Titian ,  awkward  scratches  of  the  brush  over  it  to  be 
visible,  which,  though  not  particularly  representative  either 


228 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


of  one  thing  or  another,  are  without  doubt  intended  to  be 
symbolical  of  rocks.  Now  no  mountain  in  full  light,  and 
near  enough  for  its  details  of  crag  to  be  seen,  is  without 
great  variety  of  delicate  color.  Salvator  has  painted  it 
throughout  without  one  instant  of  variation  ;  but  this,  I  sup- 
pose, is  simplicity  and  generalization  ; — let  it  pass  :  but  what 
is  the  color  ?  Pure  sky  hlue^  without  one  grain  of  gray,  or 
any  modifying  hue  whatsoever  ; — the  same  brush  which  had 
just  given  the  bluest  parts  of  the  sky,  has  been  more  loaded 
at  the  same  part  of  the  pallet,  and  the  whole  mountain  thrown 
in  with  unmitigated  ultramarine.  Now  mountains  only  can 
become  pure  blue  when  there  is  so  much  air  between  us  and 
them  that  they  become  mere  flat,  dark  shades,  every  detail 
being  totally  lost  :  they  become  blue  when  they  become  air, 
and  not  till  then.  Consequently  this  part  of  Salvator's  paint- 
ing, being  of  hills  perfectly  clear  and  near,  with  all  their  de- 
tails visible,  is,  as  far  as  color  is  concerned,  broad,  bold  false- 
hood— the  direct  assertion  of  direct  impossibility. 

In  the  whole  range  of  Turner's  works,  recent  or  of  old  date, 
you  will  not  find  an  instance  of  anything  near  enough  to  have 
details  visible,  painted  in  sky  blue.  Wherever  Turner  gives 
blue,  there  he  gives  atmosphere  ;  it  is  air,  not  object.  Blue 
he  gives  to  his  sea  ;  so  does  nature  ; — blue  he  gives,  sapphire- 
deep,  to  his  extreme  distance  ;  so  does  nature  ; — blue  he 
gives  to  the  misty  shadows  and  hollows  of  his  hills  ;  so  does 
nature  :  but  blu^  he  gives  not^  where  detailed  and  illumined 
surface  are  visible  ;  as  he  comes  into  light  and  character,  so 
he  breaks  into  warmth  and  varied  hue  ;  nor  is  there  in  one  of 
his  works,  and  I  speak  of  the  Academy  pictures  especially, 
one  touch  of  cold  color  which  is  not  to  be  accounted  for,  and 
proved  right  and  full  of  meaning. 

I  do  not  say  that  Salvator's  distance  is  not  artist-like  ;  both 
in  that,  and  in  the  yet  more  glaringly  false  distances  of  Titian 
above  alluded  to,  and  in  hundreds  of  others  of  equal  boldness 
of  exaggeration,  I  can  take  delight,  and  perhaps  should  be 
sorry  to  see  them  other  than  they  are  ;  but  it  is  somewhat 
singular  to  hear  people  talking  of  Turner's  exquisite  care  and 
watchfulness  in  color  as  false,  while  they  receive  such  cases 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR, 


229 


of  preposterous  and  audacious  fiction  with  the  most  generous 
and  simple  credulity. 

Again,  in  the  upper  sky  of  the  picture  of  Nicolas  Poussin, 
before  noticed,  the  clouds  are  of  a  very  fine  clear  olive-green, 
about  the  same  tint  as  the  brightest  parts  of  the  trees  beneath 
§ 5.  Ponssin,  and  them.  They  cannot  have  altered,  (or  else  the 
Claude.  trees  must  have  been  painted  in  gray),  for  the 

hue  is  harmonious  and  well  united  with  the  rest  of  the  picture, 
and  the  blue  and  white  in  the  centre  of  the  sky  are  still  fresh 
and  pure.  Now  a  green  sky  in  open  and  illumined  distance 
is  very  frequent,  and  very  beautiful  ;  but  rich  olive-green 
clouds,  as  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with  nature,  are  a  piece  of 
color  in  which  she  is  not  apt  to  indulge.  You  will  be  puzzled 
to  show  me  such  a  thing  in  the  recent  works  of  Turner.* 
Again,  take  any  important  group  of  trees,  I  do  not  care  whose 
— Claude's,  Salvator's,  or  Poussin's — with  lateral  light  (that 
in  the  Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca,  or  Gaspar's  sacrifice  of 
Isaac,  for  instance  :)  Can  it  be  seriously  supposed  that  those 
murky  browns  and  melancholy  greens  are  representative  of 
the  tints  of  leaves  under  full  noonday  sun  ?  I  know  that 
you  cannot  help  looking  upon  all  these  pictures  as  pieces  of 
dark  relief  against  a  light  wholly  proceeding  from  the  dis- 
tances ;  but  they  are  nothing  of  the  kind — they  are  noon  and 
morning  effects  with  full  lateral  light.  Be  so  kind  as  to  match 
the  color  of  a  leaf  in  the  sun  (the  darkest  you  like)  as  nearly 
as  you  can,  and  bring  your  matched  color  and  set  it  beside  one 
of  these  groups  of  trees,  and  take  a  blade  of  common  grass,  and 
set  it  beside  any  part  of  the  fullest  light  of  their  foregrounds, 
and  then  talk  about  the  truth  of  color  of  the  old  masters  ! 

*  There  is  perhaps  nothing  more  characteristic  of  a  great  colorist  than 
his  power  of  using  greens  in  strange  places  without  their  being  felt  as 
such,  or  at  least  than  a  constant  preference  of  green  gray  to  purple 
gray.  And  this  hue  of  Poussin's  clouds  would  have  been  perfectly 
agreeable  and  allowable,  had  there  been  gold  or  crimson  enough  in  the 
rest  of  the  picture  to  have  thrown  it  into  gray.  It  is  only  because  the 
lower  clouds  are  pure  white  and  blue,  and  because  the  trees  are  of  the 
same  color  as  the  clouds,  that  the  cloud  color  becomes  false.  There  is 
a  jSne  instance  of  a  sky,  green  in  itself,  but  turned  gray  by  the  opposi- 
tion of  warm  color,  in  Turner's  Devonport  with  the  Dockyards. 


230 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


And  let  not  arguments  respecting  the  sublimity  or  fidel- 
ity of  impressio7i  be  brought  forward  here.  I  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  this  at  present.  I  am  not  talking  about 
what  is  sublime,  but  about  what  is  true.  People  attack 
Turner  on  this  ground  ; — they  never  speak  of  beauty  or  sub- 
limity with  respect  to  him,  but  of  nature  and  truth,  and  let 
them  support  their  own  favorite  masters  on  the  same  grounds. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  the  very  deepest  veneration  for  the  feel- 
ing of  the  old  masters,  but  I  must  not  let  it  influence  me 
now — my  business  is  to  match  colors,  not  to  talk  sentiment. 
Neither  let  it  be  said  that  I  am  going  too  much  into  details, 
and  that  general  truths  may  be  obtained  by  local  falsehood. 
Truth  is  only  to  be  measured  by  close  comparison  of  actual 
facts  ;  we  may  talk  forever  about  it  in  generals,  and  prove 
nothing.  We  cannot  tell  what  effect  falsehood  may  pro- 
duce on  this  or  that  person,  but  we  can  very  well  tell  what 
is  false  and  what  is  not,  and  if  it  produce  on  our  senses  the 
effect  of  truth,  that  only  demonstrates  their  imperfection 
and  inaccuracy,  and  need  of  cultivation.  Turner's  color  is 
glaring  to  one  person's  sensations,  and  beautiful  to  another's. 
This  proves  nothing.  Poussin's  color  is  right  to  one,  soot  to 
another.  This  proves  nothing.  There  is  no  means  of  arriv- 
ing at  any  conclusion  but  close  comparison  of  both  with  the 
know^n  and  demonstrable  hues  of  nature,  and  this  comparison 
will  invariably  turn  Claude  or  Poussin  into  blackness,  and 
even  Turner  into  gray. 

Whatever  depth  of  gloom  may  seem  to  invest  the  objects 
of  a  real  landscape,  yet  a  window  with  that  landscape  seen 
through  it,  will  invariably  appear  a  broad  space  of  light  as 
compared  with  the  shade  of  the  room  walls  ;  and  this  single 
circumstance  may  prove  to  us  both  the  intensity  and  the 
diffusion  of  daylight  in  open  air,  and  the  necessity,  if  a  pict- 
ure is  to  be  truthful  in  effect  of  color,  that  it  should  tell  as  a 
broad  space  of  graduated  illumination — not,  as  do  those  of 
the  old  masters,  as  a  patchwork  of  black  shades.  Their 
works  are  nature  in  mourning  weeds, — ovK  kv  rjXlijd  KaOapia 
Tc^pa/x/jLci/ot,  aX)C  vtto  (rv/A/jttya  cr/<ta. 

It  is  true  that  there  are,  here  and  there,  in  the  Academy 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR, 


231 


pictures,  passages  in  which  Turner  has  translated  the  unat- 
tainable intensity  of  one  tone  of  color,  into  the  attainable 
pitch  of  a  hi2:her  one  :  the  crolden  orreen  for  in- 

§   6.     Turner's  ^  «  .  i  •  i  • 

translation  of  col-  stance,  oi  intense  sunshine  on  verdurc,  luto  purc 
yellow,  because  he  knows  it  to  be  impossible, 
with  any  mixture  of  blue  whatsoever,  to  give  faithfully  its 
relative  intensity  of  light,  and  Turner  always  will  have  his 
light  and  shade  right,  whatever  it  costs  him  in  color.  But 
he  does  this  in  rare  cases,  and  even  then  over  very  small 
spaces  ;  and  I  should  be  obliged  to  his  critics  if  they  would 
go  out  to  some  warm,  mossy  green  bank  in  full  summer  sun- 
shine, and  try  to  reach  its  tone  ;  and  when  they  find,  as  find 
they  will,  Indian  yellow  and  chrome  look  dark  beside  it,  let 
them  tell  me  candidly  which  is  nearest  truth,  the  gold  of 
Turner,  or  the  mourning  and  murky  olive  browns  and  verdi- 
gris greens  in  which  Claude,  with  the  industry  and  intelli- 
gence of  a  Sevres  china  painter,  drags  the  laborious  bramble 
leaves  over  his  childish  foreground. 

But  it  is  sino;ular  enouo^h  that  the  chief  attacks  on  Turner 
for  overcharged  brilliancy,  are  made,  not  when  there  could 
by  any  possibility  be  any  chance  of  his  outstepping  nature, 
§  7.  Notice  of  but  whcu  he  has  taken  subjects  which  no  colors 
n^bdiiiancy^of  earth  could  ever  vie  with  or  reach,  such,  for 
preach  That  ^of  instance,  as  his  suusets  among  the  high  clouds, 
reality.  When  I  come  to  speak  of  skies,  I  shall  point 

out  w^hat  divisions,  proportioned  to  their  elevation,  exist  in 
the  character  of  clouds.  It  is  the  highest  region, — that  ex- 
clusively characterized  by  white,  filmy,  multitudinous,  and 
quiet  clouds,  arranged  in  bars,  or  streaks,  or  flakes,  of  which 
I  speak  at  present,  a  region  which  no  landscape  painters 
have  ever  made  one  effort  to  represent,  except  Rubens  and 
Turner — the  latter  taking:  it  for  his  most  favorite  and  fre- 
quent  study.  Now  we  have  been  speaking  hitherto  of  what 
is  constant  and  necessary  in  nature,  of  the  ordinary  effects 
of  daylight  on  ordinary  colors,  and  we  repeat  again,  that  no 
gorgeousness  of  the  pallet  can  reach  even  these.  But  it  is 
a  widely  different  thing  when  nature  herself  takes  a  coloring 
fit,  and  does  something  extraordinary,  something  really  to 


232 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


exhibit  her  power.  She  has  a  thousand  ways  and  means  of 
rising  above  herself,  but  incomparably  the  noblest  manifes- 
tations of  her  capability  of  color  are  in  these  sunsets  among 
the  high  clouds.  I  speak  especially  of  the  moment  before 
the  sun  sinks,  when  his  light  turns  pure  rose-color,  and  when 
this  light  falls  upon  a  zenith  covered  with  countless  cloud- 
forms  of  inconceivable  delicacy,  threads  and  flakes  of  vapor, 
which  would  in  common  daylight  be  pure  snow  white,  and 
which  give  therefore  fair  field  to  the  tone  of  light.  There  is 
then  no  limit  to  the  multitude,  and  no  check  to  the  inten- 
sity of  the  hues  assumed.  The  whole  sky  from  the  zenith  to 
the  horizon  becomes  one  molten,  mantling  sea  of  color  and 
fire  ;  every  black  bar  turns  into  massy  gold,  every  ripple  and 
wave  into  unsullied,  shadowless,  crimson,  and  purple,  and 
scarlet,  and  colors  for  which  there  are  no  words  in  language, 
and  no  ideas  in  the  mind, — things  which  can  only  be  con- 
ceived while  they  are  visible, — the  intense  hollow  blue  of 
the  upper  sky  melting  through  it  all, — showing  here  deep, 
and  pure,  and  lightless,  there,  modulated  by  the  filmy,  form- 
less body  of  the  transparent  vapor,  till  it  is  lost  impercepti- 
bly in  its  crimson  and  gold.  Now  there  is  no  connection, 
no  one  link  of  association  or  resemblance,  between  those 
skies  and  the  work  of  any  mortal  hand  but  Turner's.  He 
alone  has  followed  nature  in  these  her  highest  efforts  ;  he 
follows  her  faithfully,  but  far  behind  ;  follows  at  such  a  dis- 
tance below  her  intensity  that  the  Napoleon  of  last  year's 
exhibition^  and  the  Temeraire  of  the  year  before,  would  look 
colorless  and  cold  if  the  eye  came  upon  them  after  one  of 
nature's  sunsets  among  the  high  clouds.  But  there  are  a 
§8.  RJh sons  for  thousand  rcasons  why  this  should  not  be  be- 
(Uauy^ofTh^o  lieved.  The  concurrence  of  circumstances  nec- 
respcct^o  thei  ^ssary  to  produce  the  sunsets  of  which  I  speak 
representation,  docs  not  take  placc  abovc  fivc  or  six  times  in 
the  summer,  and  then  only  for  a  space  of  from  five  to  ten 
minutes,  just  as  the  sun  reaches  the  horizon.  Considering 
how  seldom  people  think  of  looking  for  sunset  at  all,  and 
how  seldom,  if  they  do,  they  are  in  a  position  from  which  it 
can  be  fully  seen,  the  chances  that  their  attention  should  be 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


233 


awake,  and  their  position  favorable,  during  these  few  flying 
instants  of  the  year,  is  almost  as  nothing.  What  can  the 
citizen,  who  can  see  only  the  red  light  on  the  canvas  of  the 
wagon  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  the  crimson  color  of 
the  bricks  of  his  neighbor's  chimney,  know  of  the  flood  of 
fire  which  deluges  the  sky  from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith  ? 
What  can  even  the  quiet  inhabitant  of  the  English  lowlands, 
whose  scene  for  the  manifestation  of  the  fire  of  heaven  is 
limited  to  the  tops  of  hayricks,  and  the  rooks'  nests  in  the 
old  elm-trees,  know  of  the  mighty  passages  of  splendor 
which  are  tossed  from  Alp  to  Alp  over  the  azure  of  a  thou- 
sand miles  of  champaign  ?  Even  granting  the  constant  vigor 
of  observation,  and  supposing  the  possession  of  such  impos- 
sible knowledge,  it  needs  but  a  moment's  reflection  to  prove 
how  incapable  the  memory  is  of  retaining  for  any  time 
the  distinct  image  of  the  sources  even  of  its  most  vivid  im- 
pressions. What  recollection  have  we  of  the  sunsets  which 
delighted  us  last  year  ?  We  may  know  that  they  were  mag- 
nificent, or  glowing,  but  no  distinct  image  of  color  or  form 
is  retained — nothing  of  whose  degree  (for  the  great  difiiculty 
with  the  memory  is  to  retain,  not  facts,  but  degrees  of  fact) 
we  could  be  so  certain  as  to  say  of  anything  now  presented 
to  us,  that  it  is  like  it.  If  we  did  say  so,  we  should  be 
wrong  ;  for  we  may  be  quite  certain  that  the  energy  of  an 
impression  fades  from  the  memory,  and  becomes  more  and 
more  indistinct  every  day  ;  and  thus  we  compare  a  faded  and 
indistinct  image  with  the  decision  and  certainty  of  one 
present  to  the  senses.  How  constantly  do  we  affirm  that  the 
thunder-storm  of  last  week  was  the  most  terrible  one  we 
ever  saw  in  our  lives,  because  we  compare  it,  not  with  the 
thunder-storm  of  last  year,  but  with  the  faded  and  feeble 
recollection  of  it.  And  so,  when  we  enter  an  exhibition,  as 
we  have  no  definite  standard  of  truth  before  us,  our  feelings 
are  toned  down  and  subdued  to  the  quietness  of  color  which 
is  all  that  human  power  can  ordinarily  attain  to  ;  and  when 
we  turn  to  a  piece  of  higher  and  closer  truth,  approaching  the 
pitch  of  the  color  of  nature,  but  to  which  we  are  not  guided, 
as  we  should  be  in  nature,  by  corresponding  gradations  of 


234 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COL  OB, 


light  everywhere  around  us,  but  which  is  isolated  and  cut 
off  suddenly  by  a  frame  and  a  wall,  and  surrounded  by  dark- 
ness and  coldness,  what  can  we  expect  but  that  it  should  sur- 
prise and  shock  the  feelings  ?  Suppose,  where  the  Napoleon 
§  9.  Color  of  hung  in  the  Academy  last  year,  there  could 
the  Napoleon.  have  been  left,  instead,  an  opening  in  the  wall, 
and  through  that  opening,  in  the  midst  of  the  obscurity  of 
the  dim  room  and  the  smoke-laden  atmosphere,  there  could 
suddenly  have  been  poured  the  full  glory  of  a  tropical  sun- 
set, reverberated  from  the  sea  :  How  would  you  have  shrunk, 
blinded,  from  its  scarlet  and  intolerable  lightnings  !  What 
picture  in  the  room  would  not  have  been  blackness  after  it  ? 
And  why  then  do  you  blame  Turner  because  he  dazzles  you  ? 
Does  not  the  falsehood  rest  with  those  who  do  not?  There 
was  not  one  hue  in  this  whole  picture  which  was  not  far 
below  what  nature  would  have  used  in  the  same  circum- 
stances, nor  was  there  one  inharmonious  or  at  variance  with 
the  rest  ; — the  stormy  blood-red  of  the  horizon,  the  scarlet 
of  the  breaking  sunlight,  the  rich  crimson  browns  of  the  wet 
and  illumined  sea-weed  ;  the  pure  gold  and  purple  of  the 
upper  sky,  and,  shed  through  it  all,  the  deep  passage  of 
solemn  blue,  where  the  cold  moonlight  fell  on  one  pensive 
spot  of  the  limitless  shore — all  were  given  with  harmony  as 
perfect  as  their  color  was  intense  ;  and  if,  instead  of  passing, 
as  I  doubt  not  you  did,  in  the  hurry  of  your  unreflecting  prej- 
udice, you  had  paused  but  so  much  as  one  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  the  picture,  you  would  have  found  the  sense  of 
air  and  space  blended  with  every  line,  and  breathing  in  every 
cloud,  and  every  color  instinct  and  radiant  w4th  visible,  glow- 
ing, absorbing  light. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  in  general,  that  wherever  in 
brilliant  effects  of  this  kind,  we  approach  to  anything  like  a 
true  statement  of  nature's  color,  there  must  yet  be  a  distinct 
§  10  Necessary  ^^^^^^^'^^^^  imprcssion  wc  couvcy,  because 

discrepancy  be-  -vvc  caunot  approach  her  Uqht.    All  such  hues 

twcen  the  attain-  *■ ,  . 

able  brilliancy  of  are  usuallv  ffiveu  bv  her  with  an  accompanyinsj' 

color  and  light.  f  U  X.'  I.    A       1  A 

intensity  oi  sunbeams  which  dazzles  ana  over- 
powers the  eye,  so  that  it  cannot  rest  on  the  actual  colors, 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


235 


nor  understand  what  they  are  ;  and  hence  in  art,  in  render- 
ing^ all  effects  of  this  kind,  there  must  be  a  want  of  the  ideas 
of  imitatio7ij  which  are  the  great  source  of  enjoyment  to  the 
ordinary  observer  ;  because  we  can  only  give  one  series  of 
truths,  those  of  color,  and  are  unable  to  give  the  accompa- 
nying truths  of  light,  so  that  the  more  true  we  are  in  color, 
the  greater,  ordinarily,  will  be  the  discrepancy  felt  between 
the  mtensity  of  hue  and  the  feebleness  of  light.  But  the 
painter  who  really  loves  nature  will  not,  on  this  account,  give 
you  a  faded  and  feeble  image,  which  indeed  may  appear  to 
3^ou  to  be  right,  because  your  feelings  can  detect  no  discrep- 
ancy in  its  parts,  but  which  he  knows  to  derive  its  apparent 
truth  from  a  systematized  falsehood.  No  ;  he  will  make  you 
understand  and  feel  that  art  cannot  imitate  nature — that 
where  it  appears  to  do  so,  it  must  malign  her,  and  mock 
her.  He  will  give  you,  or  state  to  you,  such  truths  as  are 
in  his  power,  completely  and  perfectly  ;  and  those  which  he 
cannot  give,  he  will  leave  to  your  imagination.  If  you  are 
acquainted  with  nature,  you  will  know  all  he  has  given  to 
be  true,  and  you  will  supply  from  your  memory  and  from 
your  heart  that  life  which  he  cannot  give.  If  you  are  unac- 
quainted with  nature,  seek  elsewhere  for  whatever  may  hap- 
pen to  satisfy  your  feelings  ;  but  do  not  ask  for  the  truth 
which  you  would  not  acknowledge  and  could  not  enjoy. 

Nevertheless  the  aim  and  struggle  of  the  artist  must 
always  be  to  do  away  with  this  discrepancy  as  far  as  the 
powers  of  art  admit,  not  by  lowering  his  color,  but  by  in- 
creasing his  light.  And  it  is  indeed  by  this  that  the  works 
§11.  This  dis-  of  Turner  are  peculiarly  distinguished  from 
Ser^han  In  those  of  all  other  colorists,  by  the  dazzling  in- 
other  coiorists.  tensity,  namely,  of  the  light  which  he  sheds 
through  every  hue,  and  which,  far  more  than  their  brilliant 
color,  is  the  real  source  of  their  overpowering  effect  upon 
the  eye,  an  effect  so  reasonably  made  the  subject  of  per- 
petual animadversion,  as  if  the  sun  which  they  repre- 
sent were  quite  a  quiet,  and  subdued,  and  gentle,  and  man- 
ageable luminary,  and  never  dazzled  anybody,  under  any 
circumstances  whatsoever.     I  am  fond  of  standing  by  a 


236 


OF  TBUTH  OF  COLOR, 


bright  Turner  in  the  Academy,  to  listen  to  the  unintentional 
compliments  of  the  crowd — "What  a  glaring  thing  !  "  "I 
declare  I  can't  look  at  it  !  "  "  Don't  it  hurt  your  eyes  ?  *' — 
expressed  as  if  they  were  in  the  constant  habit  of  looking 
the  sun  full  in  the  face,  with  the  most  perfect  comfort  and 
entire  facility  of  vision.  It  is  curious  after  hearing  people 
§  12.  Its  great  malign  som^e  of  Turner's  noble  passages  of  light, 
s?Ipo* Attributed  to  pass  to  some  really  ungrammatical  and  false 
to  Rubens.  picture  of  the  old  masters,  in  which  we  have 
color  given  without  light.  Take,  for  instance,  the  land- 
scape attributed  to  Rubens,  No.  175,  in  the  Dulwich  Gal- 
ler}^  1  never  have  spoken,  and  I  never  will  speak  of 
Rubens  but  with  the  most  reverential  feelinor  :  and  what- 
ever  imperfections  in  his  art  may  have  resulted  from  his  un- 
fortunate want  of  seriousness  and  incapability  of  true  pas- 
sion, his  calibre  of  mind  was  originally  such  that  I  believe 
the  world  may  see  another  Titian  and  another  Raffaelle,  be- 
fore it  sees  another  Rubens.  But  I  have  before  alluded  to 
the  violent  license  he  occasionally  assumes ;  and  there  is  an 
instance  of  it  in  this  picture  apposite  to  the  immediate  ques- 
tion. The  sudden  streak  and  circle  of  yellow  and  crimson 
in  the  middle  of  the  sky  of  that  picture,  being  the  occur- 
rence of  a  fragment  of  a  sunset  color  in  pure  daylight,  and 
in  perfect  isolation,  while  at  the  same  time  it  is  rather  darker, 
when  translated  into  light  and  shade,  than  brighter  than  the 
rest  of  the  sky,  is  a  case  of  such  bold  absurdity,  come  from 
whose  pencil  it  may,  that  if  every  error  which  Turner  has 
fallen  into  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life  were  concentrated 
into  one,  that  one  would  not  equal  it  ;  and  as  our  connois- 
seurs gaze  upon  this  wath  never-ending  approbation,  we  must 
not  be  surprised  that  the  accurate  perceptions  which  thus 
take  delight  in  pure  fiction,  should  consistently  be  disgusted 
by  Turner's  fidelity  and  truth. 

Hitherto,  however,  we  have  been  speaking  of  vividness  of 
§  13.  Turner  pi^^re  color,  and  showing  that  it  is  used  by  Turner 
u^es^  p uV^e^^oJ  Only  whcre  nature  uses  it,  and  in  no  less  degree, 
vivid  color.  have  hitherto,  therefore,  been  speaking 

of  a  most  limited  and  uncharacteristic  portion  of  his  works  ; 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


237 


for  Turner,  like  all  great  colorists,  is  distinguished  not  more 
for  his  power  of  dazzling  and  overwhelming  the  eye  with  in- 
tensity of  effect,  than  for  his  power  of  doing  so  by  the  use 
of  subdued  and  gentle  means.  There  is  no  man  living  more 
cautious  and  sparing  in  the  use  of  pure  color  than  Turner.  To 
say  that  he  never  perpetrates  anything  like  the  blue  excres- 
cences of  foreground,  or  hills  shot  like  a  housekeeper's  best 
silk  gown,  with  blue  and  red,  which  certain  of  our  cele- 
brated artists  consider  the  essence  of  the  sublime,  would 
be  but  a  poor  compliment.  I  might  as  well  praise  the  por- 
traits of  Titian  because  they  have  not  the  grimace  and  paint 
of  a  clown  in  a  pantomime  ;  but  I  do  say,  and  say  with  con- 
fidence, that  there  is  scarcely  a  landscape  artist  of  the 
present  day,  however  sober  and  lightless  their  effects  may 
look,  who  does  not  employ  more  pure  and  raw  color  than 
Turner  ;  and  that  the  ordinary  tinsel  and  trash,  or  rather 
vicious  and  perilous  stuff,  according  to  the  power  of  the 
mind  producing  it,  with  which  the  walls  of  our  Academy  are- 
half  covered,  disgracing,  in  weak  hands,  or  in  more  powerful, 
degrading  and  corrupting  our  whole  school  of  art,  is  based 
on  a  system  of  color  beside  which  Turner's  is  as  Vesta  to 
Cotytto — the  chastity  of  fire  to  the  foulness  of  earth. 
Every  picture  of  this  great  colorist  has,  in  one  or  two  parts 
of  it,  (key-notes  of  the  whole,)  points  where  the  system  of 
each  individual  color  is  concentrated  by  a  single  stroke,  as 
pure  as  it  can  come  from  the  pallet  ;  but  throughout  the 
great  space  and  extent  of  even  the  most  brilliant  of  his 
works,  there  will  not  be  found  a  raw  color  ;  that  is  to  say, 
there  is  no  warmth  which  has  not  gray  in  it,  and  no  blue 
which  has  not  warmth  in  it  ;  and  the  tints  in  which  he  most 
excels  and  distances  all  other  men,  the  most  cherished  and 
inimitable  portions  of  his  color,  are,  as  with  all  perfect  col- 
orists  they  must  be,  his  grays. 

It  is  instructive  in  this  respect,  to  compare  the  sky  of  the 
Mercury  and  Argus  with  the  various  illustrations  of  the  se- 
renity, space,  and  sublimity  naturally  inherent  in  blue  and 
pink,  of  which  every  year's  exhibition  brings  forward  enough 
and  to  spare.    In  the  Mercury  and  Argus,  the  pale  and  va- 


238 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


porous  blue  of  the  heated  sky  is  broken  with  gray  and  pearly 
white,  the  gold  color  of  the  light  warming  it  more  or  less  as 
it  approaches  or  retires  from  the  sun  ;  but  throughout,  there 
is  not  a  grain  of  pure  blue  ;  all  is  subdued  and  warmed  at 
the  same  time  by  the  mingling  gray  and  gold,  up  to  the 
very  zenith,  where,  breaking  through  the  flaky  mist,  the 
transparent  and  deep  azure  of  the  sky  is  expressed  with  a 
single  crumbling  touch  ;  the  key-note  of  the  whole  is  given, 
and  every  part  of  it  passes  at  once  far  into  glowing  and 
aerial  space.  The  reader  can  scarcely  fail  to  remember  at 
once  sundry  works  in  contradistinction  to  this,  with  great 
names  attached  to  them,  in  which  the  sky  is  a  sheer  piece  of 
plumber's  and  glazier's  work,  and  should  be  valued  per  yard, 
with  heavy  extra  charge  for  ultramarine. 

Throughout  the  works  of  Turner,^ the  same  truthful  prin- 
ciple of  delicate  and  subdued  color  is  carried  out  with  a  care 
and  labor  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  form  a  conception.  He 
o^.       ^  •   ^  Ofives  a  dash  of  pure  white  for  his  his^hest 

§  14.  The  basis  of    C5  r  ^  p 

|ray,  .^^"der  all  light  ;  but  all  the  othcr  whites  of  his  picture 
are  pearled  down  with  gray  or  gold.  He  gives 
a  fold  of  pure  crimson  to  the  drapery  of  his  nearest  figure, 
but  all  his  other  crimsons  will  be  deepened  with  black,  or 
warmed  with  yellow.  In  one  deep  reflection  of  his  distant 
sea,  we  catch  a  trace  of  the  purest  blue  ;  \  ut  all  the  rest  is 
palpitating  with  a  varied  and  delicate  gradation  of  harmon- 
ized tint,  which  indeed  looks  vivid  blue  aa  a  mass,  but  is 
only  so  by  opposition.  It  is  the  most  difficult,  the  most  rare 
thing,  to  find  in  his  works  a  definite  space,  however  small,  of 
unconnected  color  ;  that  is,  either  of  a  blue  which  has 
nothing  to  connect  it  with  the  warmth,  or  of  a  warm  color 
which  has  nothing  to  connect  it  with  the  grays  of  the  whole  ; 
and  the  result  is,  that  there  is  a  general  system  and  under- 
current of  gray  pervading  the  whole  of  his  color,  out  of 
which  his  highest  lights,  and  those  local  touches  of  pure 
color,  which  are,  as  I  said  before,  the  key-notes  of  the 
picture,  flash  with  the  peculiar  brilliancy  and  intensity  in 
which  he  stands  alone. 

Intimately  associated  with  this  toning  down  and  connec- 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


239 


tion  of  tlie  colors  actually  used,  is  his  inimitable  power  of 
varying  and  blending  them,  so  as  never  to  give  a  quarter  of 
§15.  The  variety  mch  of  canvas  without  a  change  in  it,  a 
o?L^mrtliS  inelody  as  well  as  a  harmony  of  one  kind 
or  another.  Observe,  I  am  not  at  present 
speaking  of  this  as  artistical  or  desirable  in  itself,  not  as 
a  characteristic  of  the  great  colorist,  but  as  the  aim  of 
the  simple  follower  of  nature.  For  it  is  strange  to  see  how 
marvellously  nature  varies  the  most  general  and  simple 
of  her  tones.  A  mass  of  mountain  seen  against  the  light, 
may,  at  first,  appear  all  of  one  blue  ;  and  so  it  is,  blue  as  a 
whole,  by  comparison  with  other  parts  of  the  landscape. 
But  look  how  that  blue  is  made  up.  There  are  black 
shadows  in  it  under  the  crags,  there  are  green  shadows 
along  the  turf,  there  are  gray  half-lights  upon  the  rocks, 
there  are  faint  touches  of  stealthy  warmth  and  cautious 
light  along  their  edges  ;  every  bush,  every  stone,  every  tuft 
of  moss  has  its  voice  in  the  matter,  and  joins  with  individ- 
ual character  in  the  universal  will.  Who  is  there  who  can 
do  this  as  Turner  will  ?  The  old  masters  would  have  set- 
tled the  matter  at  once  with  a  transparent,  agreeable,  but 
monotonous  gray.  Many  among  the  moderns  would  prob- 
ably be  equally  monotonous  with  absurd  and  false  colors. 
Turner  only  would  give  the  uncertainty — the  palpitating, 
perpetual  change — the  subjection  of  all  to  a  great  influence, 
without  one  part  or  portion  being  lost  or  merged  in  it — the 
unity  of  action  with  infinity  of  agent.  And  I  wish  to  insist 
§  16.  Foiiowint?  ^^^s  the  more  particularly,  because  it  is  one 
JmwroacLwe^  eternal  principles  of  nature,  that  she  will 

variety  of  nature,  have  One  line  nor  color,  nor  one  portion  nor 
atom  of  space  without  a  change  in  it.  There  is  not  one  of 
her  shadows,  tints,  or  lines  that  is  not  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
variation  :  I  do  not  mean  in  time,  but  in  space.  There  is  not 
a  leaf  in  the  world  which  has  the  same  color  visible  over  its 
whole  surface  ;  it  has  a  white  high  light  somewhere  ;  and  in 
proportion  as  it  curves  to  or  from  that  focus,  the  color 
is  brighter  or  grayer.  Pick  up  a  common  flint  from  the 
roadside,  and    count,  if  you  can,  its  changes  and  hues 


240 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


of  color.  Every  bit  of  bare  ground  under  your  feet  has  in 
it  a  thousand  such — the  gray  pebbles,  the  warm  ochre,  the 
green  of  incipient  vegetation,  the  grays  and  blacks  of 
its  reflexes  and  shadows,  might  keep  a  painter  at  work  for  a 
month,  if  he  were  obliged  to  follow  them  touch  for  touch  : 
how  much  more,  when  the  same  infinity  of  change  is  carried 
out  with  vastness  of  object  and  space.  The  extreme  of 
distance  may  appear  at  first  monotonous  ;  but  the  least  ex- 
amination will  show  it  to  be  full  of  every  kind  of  change — 
that  its  outlines  are  perpetually  melting  and  appearing 
again — sharp  here,  vague  there — now  lost  altogether,  now 
just  hinted  and  still  confused  among  each  other — and  so  for- 
ever in  a  state  and  necessity  of  change.  Hence,  wherever 
in  a  painting  we  have  unvaried  color  extended  even  over  a 
small  space,  there  is  falsehood.  Nothing  can  be  natural 
which  is  monotonous  ;  nothing  true  which  only  tells  one 
story.  The  brown  foreground  and  rocks  of  Claude's  Sinon 
before  Priam  are  as  false  as  color  can  be  :  first,  because 
there  never  was  such  a  brown  under  sunlight,  for  even  the 
sand  and  cinders  (volcanic  tufa)  about  Naples,  granting  that 
he  had  studied  from  these  ugliest  of  all  formations,  are, 
where  they  are  fresh  fractured,  golden  and  lustrous  in  full 
light  compared  to  these  ideals  of  crag,  and  become,  like  all 
other  rocks,  quiet  and  gray  when  weathered ;  and  secondly, 
because  no  rock  that  ever  nature  stained  is  without  its 
countless  breaking  tints  of  varied  vegetation.  And  even 
Stanfield,  master  as  he  is  of  rock  form,  is  apt  in  the  same 
way  to  give  us  here  and  there  a  little  bit  of  mud,  instead  of 
stone. 

What  I  am  next  about  to  say  with  respect  to  Turner's 
color,  I  should  wish  to  be  received  with  caution,  as  it  admits 
of  dispute.  I  think  that  the  first  approach  to  viciousness  of 
§  17.  His  dislike  color  in  any  master  is  commonly  indicated  chiefly 
fondness  for"  the  by  a  prevalence  of  purple,  and  an  absence  of 
iTran^bLlk:  yellow.  I  think  nature  mixes  yellow  with  al- 
n^^turrintliirre-  ^^^t  cvcry  One  of  her  hues,  never,  or  very 
^P^^^-  rarely,  using  red  without  it,  but  frequently 

using  yellow  with  scarcely  any  red  \  and  I  believe  it  will  be 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR, 


241 


in  consequence  found  that  her  favorite  opposition,  that  which 
generally  characterizes  and  gives  tone  to  her  color,  is  yellow 
and  black,  passing,  as  it  retires,  into  white  and  blue.  It  is 
beyond  dispute  that  the  great  fundamental  opposition  of 
Rubens  is  yellow  and  black  ;  and  that  on  this,  concentrated 
in  one  part  of  the  picture,  and  modified  in  various  grays 
throughout,  chiefly  depend  the  tones  of  all  his  finest  works. 
And  in  Titian,  though  there  is  a  far  greater  tendency  to  the 
purple  than  in  Rubens,  I  believe  no  red  is  ever  mixed  with 
the  pure  blue,  or  glazed  over  it,  which  has  not  in  it  a  modi- 
fying quantity  of  yellow.  At  all  events,  I  am  nearly  certain 
that  whatever  rich  and  pure  purples  are  introduced  locally, 
by  the  great  colorists,  nothing  is  so  destructive  of  all  fine 
color  as  the  slightest  tendency  to  purple  in  general  tone;  and 
I  am  equally  certain  that  Turner  is  distinguished  from  all  the 
vicious  colorists  of  the  present  day,  by  the  foundation  of  all 
his  tones  being  black,  yellow,  and  the  intermediate  grays, 
while  the  tendency  of  our  common  glare-seekers  is  invariably 
to  pure,  cold,  impossible  purples.  So  fond  indeed  is  Turner 
of  black  and  yellow,  that  he  has  given  us  more  than  one 
composition,  both  drawings  and  paintings,  based  on  these 
two  colors  alone,  of  which  the  magnificent  Quilleboeuf ,  which 
I  consider  one  of  the  most  perfect  pieces  of  simple  color  ex- 
isting, is  a  most  striking  example  ;  and  I  think  that  where, 
as  in  some  of  the  late  Venices,  there  has  been  something  like 
a  marked  appearance  of  purple  tones,  even  though  exquisitely 
corrected  by  vivid  orange  and  warm  green  in  the  foreground, 
the  general  color  has  not  been  so  perfect  or  truthful  :  my 
own  feelings  would  always  guide  me  rather  to  the  warm 
grays  of  such  pictures  as  the  Snow  Storm,  or  the  glowing 
scarlet  and  gold  of  thie  Napoleon  and  Slave  Ship.  But  I  do 
not  insist  at  present  on  this  part  of  the  subject,  as  being  per- 
haps more  proper  for  future  examination,  when  we  are  con- 
sidering the  ideal  of  color. 

The  above  remarks  have  been  made  entirely  with  reference 
to  the  recent  Academy  pictures,  which  have  been  chiefly  at- 
tacked for  their  color.    I  by  no  means  intend  them  to  apply 
to  the  early  works  of  Turner,  those  which  the  enlightened 
Vol.  L— 16 


242 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


newspaper  critics  are  perpetually  talking  about  as  charac- 
teristic of  a  time  when  Turner  was  "  really  great."    He  is, 
and  was,  really  great,  from  the  time  when  he  first  could  hold 
a  brush,  but  he  never  was  so  e^reat  as  he  is  now 

§18.    His  early    mi       n         •  id       i        i     •  •  . 

works  are  false  1  ue  brossmg  the  .brook,  glorious  as  it  IS  as  a 
m  color.  composition,  and  perfect  in  all  that  is  most 

desirable  and  most  ennobling  in  art,  is  scarcely  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  piece  of  color  ;  it  is  an  agreeable,  cool,  gray  ren- 
dering of  space  and  form,  but  it  is  not  color  ;  if  it  be  re- 
garded as  such,  it  is  thoroughly  false  and  vapid,  and  very 
far  inferior  to  the  tones  of  the  same  kind  given  by  Claude. 
The  reddish  brown  in  the  foreground  of  the  Fall  of  Carthage, 
with  all  diffidence  be  it  spoken,  is,  as  far  as  my  feelings  are 
competent  to  judge,  crude,  sunless,  and  in  every  way  wrong; 
and  both  this  picture  and  the  Building  of  Carthage,  though 
this  latter  is  far  the  finer  of  the  two,  are  quite  unworthy  of 
Turner  as  a  colorist. 

Not  so  with  the  drawings  ;  these,  countless  as  they  are, 
from  the  earliest  to  the  latest,  though  presenting  an  unbroken 
chain  of  increasing  difficulty  overcome,  and  truth  illustrated, 
§  19.  His  drawings  ^^^3  according  to  their  aim,  equally  faultless 
invariably  perfect,  to  color.  Whatever  we  have  hitherto  said, 
applies  to  them  in  its  fullest  extent  ;  though  each,  being  gen- 
erally the  realization  of  some  effect  actually  seen,  and  realized 
but  once,  requires  almost  a  separate  essay.  As  a  class,  they 
are  far  quieter  and  chaster  than  the  Academy  pictures,  and, 
were  they  better  known,  might  enable  our  connoisseurs  to 
form  a  somewhat  more  accurate  judgment  of  the  intense  study 
of  nature  on  which  all  Turner's  color  is  based. 

One  point  only  remains  to  be  noted  respecting  his  system 
of  color  generally — its  entire  subordination  to  light  and  shade, 
a  subordination  which  there  is  no  need  to  prove  here,  as 
§  20.  Thesubjec-  Gvcry  engraving  from  his  works — and  few  are 
"r^totlft'5  unengraved--is  sufficient  demonstration  of  it. 
chiaroscuro.  J  ImwQ  bcforc  showu  the  inferiority  and  unim- 
portance in  nature  of  color,  as  a  truth,  comp^recj  with  light 
and  shade.  That  inferiority  is  maintained  and  assepted  by  all 
really  great  works  of  color  ;  but  most  by  Turner's  as  thpir 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


243 


color  is  most  intense.  Whatever  brilliancy  he  may  choose  to 
assume,  is  subjected  to  an  inviolable  law  of  chiaroscuro,  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal.  No  richness  nor  depth  of  tint  is 
considered  of  value  enough  to  atone  for  the  loss  of  one  par- 
ticle of  arranged  light.  No  brilliancy  of  hue  is  permitted  to 
interfere  with  the  depth  of  a  determined  shadow.  And  hence 
it  is,  that  while  engravings  from  works  far  less  splendid  in 
color  are  often  vapid  and  cold,  because  the  little  color  em- 
ployed has  not  been  rightly  based  on  light  and  shade,  an 
engraving  from  Turner  is  always  beautiful  and  forcible  in 
proportion  as  the  color  of  the  original  has  been  intense,  and 
never  in  a  single  instance  has  failed  to  express  the  picture  as 
a  perfect  composition.*    Powerful  and  captivating  and  faith- 

*  This  is  saying  too  much  ;  for  it  not  unfrequently  happens  that  the 
light  and  shade  of  the  original  is  lost  in  the  engraving,  the  effect  of 
which  is  afterwards  partially  recovered,  with  the  aid  of  the  artist  him- 
self, by  introductions  of  new  features.  Sometimes,  when  a  drawing 
depends  chiefly  on  color,  the  engraver  gets  unavoidably  embarrassed,  and 
must  be  assisted  by  some  change  or  exaggeration  of  the  effect ;  but  the 
more  frequent  case  is,  that  the  engraver's  difficulties  result  merely  from 
his  inattention  to,  or  wilful  deviations  from  his  original  ;  and  that  the 
artist  is  obliged  to  assist  him  by  such  expedients  as  the  error  itself 
suggests. 

Not  unfrequently  in  reviewing  a  plate,  as  very  constantly  in  reviewing 
a  picture  after  some  time  has  elapsed  since  its  completion,  even  the 
painter  is  liable  to  make  unnecessary  or  hurtful  changes.  In  the  plate 
of  the  Old  Temeraire,  lately  published  in  Finden's  gallery,  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  was  Turner  or  the  engraver  who  broke  up  the  water 
into  sparkling  ripple,  but  it  was  a  grievous  mistake,  and  has  destroyed 
the  whole  dignity  and  value  of  the  conception.  The  flash  of  lightning 
in  the  Winch elsea  of  the  England  series  does  not  exist  in  the  original  ; 
it  is  put  in  to  withdraw  the  attention  of  the  spectator  from  the  sky 
which  the  engraver  destroyed. 

There  is  an  unfortunate  persuasion  among  modern  engravers  that  color 
can  be  expressed  by  particular  characters  of  line  ;  and  in  the  endeavor 
to  distinguish  by  different  lines,  different  colors  of  equal  depth,  they 
frequently  lose  the  whole  system  of  light  and  shade.  It  will  hardly  be 
credited  that  the  piece  of  foreground  on  the  left  of  Turner's  Modern 
Italy,  represented  in  the  Art-Union  engraving  as  nearly  coal  black,  is  in 
the  original  of  a  pale  warm  gray,  hardly  darker  than  the  sky.  All  at- 
tempt to  record  color  in  engraving,  is  heraldry  out  of  its  place  ;  the  en- 
graver has  no  power  beyond  that  of  expressing  transparency  or  opacity 


244 


OF  TRUTH  OF  COLOR. 


ful  as  his  color  is,  it  is  the  least  important  of  all  his  excel- 
lences, because  it  is  the  least  important  feature  of  nature.  He 
paints  in  color,  but  he  thinks  in  light  and  shade  ;  and  were 
it  necessary,  rather  than  lose  one  line  of  his  forms,  or  one  ray 

by  greater  or  less  openness  of  line,  (for  the  same  depth  of  tint  is  pro- 
ducible by  lines  with  very  different  intervals.) 

Texture  of  surface  is  only  in  a  measure  in  the  power  of  the  steel,  and 
ought  not  to  be  laboriously  sought  after ;  nature's  surfaces  are  distin- 
guished more  by  form  than  texture  ;  a  stone  is  often  smoother  than  a 
leaf  ;  but  if  texture  is  to  be  <;  iven,  let  the  engraver  at  least  be  sure  that 
he  knows  what  the  texture  of  the  object  actually  is,  and  how  to  rep- 
resent it.  The  leaves  in  the  foreground  of  the  engraved  Mercury  and 
Argus  have  all  of  them  three  or  four  black  lines  across  them.  What 
sort  of  leaf  texture  is  supposed  to  be  represented  by  these  ?  The  stones 
in  the  foreground  of  Turner's  Llanthony  received  from  the  artist  the 
powdery  texture  of  sandstone ;  the  engraver  covered  them  with  con- 
torted lines  and  turned  them  into  old  timber. 

A  still  more  fatal  cause  of  failure  is  the  practice  of  making  out  or 
finishing  what  the  artist  left  incomplete.  In  the  England  plate  of  Dud- 
ley, there  are  two  offensive  blank  windows  in  the  large  building  with 
the  chimney  on  the  left.  These  are  engraver's  improvements  ;  in  the 
original  they  are  barely  traceable,  their  lines  being  excessively  faint  and 
tremulous  as  with  the  movement  of  heated  air  between  them  and  the 
spectator ;  their  vulgarity  is  thus  taken  away,  and  the  whole  building 
left  in  one  grand  unbroken  mass.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  break  en- 
gravers of  this  unfortunate  habit.  I  have  even  heard  of  their  taking 
journeys  of  some  distance  in  order  to  obtain  knowledge  of  the  details 
which  the  artist  intentionally  omitted  ;  and  the  evil  will  necessarily 
continue  until  they  receive  something  like  legitimate  artistical  educa- 
tion. In  one  or  two  instances,  however,  especially  in  small  plates,  they 
have  shown  great  feelin<2:: ;  the  plates  of  Miller  (especially  those  of  the 
Turner  illustrations  to  Scott)  are  in  most  instances  perfect  and  beautiful 
interpretations  of  the  originals  ;  so  those  of  Goodall  in  Rogers's  works, 
and  Cousens's  in  the  Rivers  of  France  ;  those  of  the  Yorkshire  series 
are  also  very  valuable,  though  singularly  inferior  to  the  drawings.  But 
none  even  of  these  men  appear  capable  of  producing  a  large  plate.  They 
have  no  knowledge  of  the  means  of  rendering  their  lines  vital  or  valu- 
able ;  cross-hatching  stands  for  everything ;  and  inexcusably,  for  thou  : h 
we  cannot  expect  every  engraver  to  etch  like  Rembrandt  or  Albert 
Durer,  or  every  wood-cutter  to  draw  like  Titian,  at  least  something  of 
the  system  and  power  of  the  grand  works  of  those  men  mi<iht  be  pre- 
served, and  some  mind  and  meaning  stolen  into  the  reticulation  of  the 
restlefcs  modern  lines. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO.  245 


of  his  sunshine,  would,  I  apprehend,  be  content  to  paint  in 
black  and  white  to  the  end  of  his  life.  It  is  by  mistaking  the 
shadow  for  the  substance,  and  aiming  at  the  brilliancy  and 
the  fire,  without  perceiving  of  what  deep-studied  shade  and 
inimitable  form  it  is  at  once  the  result  and  the  illustration, 
that  the  host  of  his  imitators  sink  into  deserved  disgrace. 
With  him,  as  with  all  the  greatest  painters,  and  in  Turner's 
more  than  all,  the  hue  is  a  beautiful  auxiliary  in  working  out 
the  great  impression  to  be  conveyed,  but  is  not  the  source  nor 
the  essence  of  that  impression  ;  it  is  little  more  than  a  visible 
melody,  given  to  raise  and  assist  the  mind  in  the  reception 
of  nobler  ideas — as  sacred  passages  of  sweet  sound,  to  pre- 
pare the  feelings  for  the  reading  of  the  mysteries  of  God. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO. 


It  is  not  my  intention  to  enter,  in  the  present  portion  of 
the  work,  upon  any  examination  of  Turner's  particular  effects 
of  light.  We  must  know  something  about  what  is  beautiful 
§1.  We  are  not  at  before  we  spcak  of  these. 

fne"c^^^^^^  At  present  I  wish  only  to  insist  upon  two  great 
fects  of  light.  principles  of  chiaroscuro,  which  are  observed 
throughout  the  works  of  the  great  modern  master,  and  set  at 
defiance  by  the  ancients — great  general  laws,  which  may,  or 
may  not,  be  sources  of  beauty,  but  whose  observance  is  in- 
disputably necessary  to  truth. 

Go  out  some  bright  sunny  day  in  winter,  and  look  for  a 
tree  with  a  broad  trunk,  having  rather  delicate  boughs  hang- 
ing down  on  the  sunny  side,  near  the  trunk.  Stand  four  or 
five  yards  from  it,  with  your  back  to  the  sun.  You  will  find 
that  the  boughs  between  you  and  the  trunk  of  the  tree  are 
very  indistinct,  that  you  confound  them  in  places  with  the 
trunk  itself,  and  cannot  possibly  trace  one  of  them  from  its 
insertion  to  its  extremity.  But  the  shadows  which  they  cast 
upon  the  trunk,  you  will  find  clear,  dark,  and  distinct,  per- 


246  OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAHOSCURO. 


fectly  traceable  through  their  whole  course,  except  when 
they  are  interrupted  by  the  crossing  boughs.  And  if  you 
retire  backwards,  you  will  come  to  a  point  where  you  cannot 
see  the  intervening  boughs  at  all,  or  only  a  fragment  of  them 
here  and  there,  but  can  still  see  their  shadows  perfectly  plain. 
Now,  this  may  serve  to  show  you  the  immense  prominence 
and  importance  of  shadows  where  there  is  anything  like  bright 
light.  They  are,  in  fact,  commonly  far  more  conspicuous  than 
the  thing  which  casts  them,  for  being  as  large  as  the  casting 
object,  and  altogether  made  up  of  a  blackness  deeper  than 
the  darkest  part  of  the  casting  object,  (while  that  object  is 
also  broken  up  with  positive  and  reflected  lights,)  their  large, 
broad,  unbroken  spaces,  tell  strongly  on  the  eye,  especially 
as  all  form  is  rendered  partially,  often  totally  invisible  within 
them,  and  as  they  are  suddenly  terminated  by  the  sharpest 
lines  which  nature  ever  shows.  For  no  outline  of  objects 
whatsoever  is  so  sharp  as  the  edge  of  a  close  shadow.  Put 
your  finger  over  a  piece  of  white  paper  in  the  sun,  and  ob- 
serve the  difference  between  the  softness  of  the  outline  of  the 
finger  itself  and  the  decision  of  the  edge  of  the  shadow. 
And  note  also  the  excessive  gloom  of  the  latter.  A  piece  of 
black  cloth,  laid  in  the  light,  will  not  attain  one-fourth  of  the 
blackness  of  the  paper  under  the  shadow. 

Hence  shadows  are  in  reality,  when  the  sun  is  shining,  the 
most  conspicuous  thing  in  a  landscape,  next  to  the  highest 
lights.  All  forms  are  understood  and  explained  chiefly  by 
p  „    ,  ^         their  aofency  :  the  rouo^hness  of  the  bark  of  a 

§2.    And  there-  .  . 

fore  the  distinct-  tree,  f or  instance,  is  not  seen  in  the  lio:ht,  nor 

ness  of  shadows    .       ,        ,     i        .     .  ,  i 

is  the  chief  in  the  shadc  ;  it  is  only  seen  between  the  two, 

means  of  expres-       ,  .  i         i     i  p    .\         •  i  i  • 

sing  vividness  of  where  the  shadows  OI  the  ridges  explain  it. 
light.  And  hence,  if  we  have  to  express  vivid  light,  our 

very  first  aim  must  be  to  get  the  shadows  sharp  and  visible  ; 
and  this  is  not  to  be  done  by  blackness,  (though  indeed 
chalk  on  white  paper  Is  the  only  thing  which  comes  up  to 
the  intensity  of  real  shadows,)  but  by  keeping  them  per- 
fectly flat,  keen,  and  even.  A  very  pale  shadow,  if  it  be 
quite  flat — if  it  conceal  the  details  of  the  objects  it  crosses 
— if  it  be  gray  and  cold  compared  to  their  color,  and  very 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO. 


247 


sharp  edged,  will  be  far  more  conspicuous,  and  make  every- 
thing out  of  it  look  a  great  deal  more  like  sunlight,  than  a 
shadow  ten  times  its  depth,  shaded  off  at  the  edge,  and  con- 
o  „    rx,    ,   ^,    founded  with  the  color  of  the  objects  on  which 

§  3.     Total  ab-    ^  , 

senceof  suchdis-  it  falls.    Now  the  old  mastcrs  of  the  Italian 

tinctness  in  the        ii.        ^  ni*  i        t  i 

works  of  the  school,  in  almost  ail  their  works,  directly  reverse 
this  principle:  they  blacken  their  shadows  till  the 
picture  becomes  quite  appalling,  and  everything  in  it  invisible; 
but  they  make  a  point  of  losing  their  edges,  and  carrying 
them  off  by  gradation  ;  in  consequence  utterly  destroying 
every  appearance  of  sunlight.  All  their  shadows  are  the 
faint,  secondary  darknesses  of  mere  daylight  ^  the  sun  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  them.  The  shadow  between 
the  pages  of  the  book  which  you  hold  in  your  hand  is  dis- 
tinct and  visible  enough,  (though  you  are,  I  suppose,  read- 
ing it  by  the  ordinary  daylight  of  your  room,)  out  of  the 
sun  ;  and  this  weak  and  secondary  shadow  is  all  that  we  ever 
find  in  the  Italian  masters,  as  indicative  of  sunshine.  Even 
Cuyp  and  Berghern,  though  they  know  thor- 
Ibsencf^irT'^the  oughly  wcll  what  they  are  about  in  their  fore- 
Dutch,  grounds,  forget  the  principle  in  their  distances  ; 
and  though  in  Claude's  seaports,  where  he  has  plain  archi- 
tecture to  deal  with,  he  gives  us  something  like  real  shadows 
along  the  stones,  the  moment  we  come  to  ground  and  foli- 
age with  lateral  light,  away  go  the  shadows  and  the  sun 
together.  In  the  Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca,  in  our  own 
gallery,  the  trunks  of  the  trees  between  the  water-wheel  and 
the  white  figure  in  the  middle  distance,  are  dark  and  visible  ; 
but  their  shadows  are  scarcely  discernible  on  the  ground,  and 
are  quite  vague  and  lost  in  the  building.  In  nature,  every 
bit  of  the  shadow  would  have  been  darker  than  the  darkest 
part  of  the  trunks,  and  both  on  the  ground  and  building 
would  have  been  defined  and  conspicuous  ;  while  the  trunks 
themselves  would  have  been  faint,  confused,  and  indis- 
tinguishable, in  their  illumined  parts,  from  the  grass  or  dis- 
tance. So  in  Poussin's  Phocion,  the  shadow  of  the  stick  on 
the  stone  in  the  right-hand  corner,  is  shaded  off  and  lost, 
while  you  see  the  stick  plain  all  the  way.    In  nature's  sun- 


248 


OF  TRUTH  OF  GHIAROSGURO. 


light  it  would  have  been  the  direct  reverse — you  would  have 
seen  the  shadow  black  and  sharp  all  the  way  down,  but  you 
would  have  had  to  look  for  the  stick,  which  in  all  probability 
would  in  several  places  have  been  confused  with  the  stone 
behind  it. 

And  so  throughout  the  works  of  Claude,  Poussin,  and  Sal- 
vator,  we  shall  find,  especially  in^  their  conventional  foliage, 
and  unarticulated  barbarisms  of  rock,  that  their  whole  sum 
and  substance  of  chiaroscuro  is  merely  the  gradation  and 
variation  which  nature  gives  in  the  body  of  her  shadows,  and 
that  all  which  they  do  to  express  sunshine,  she  does  to  vary 
shade.  They  take  only  one  step,  while  she  always  takes 
two  ;  marking,  in  the  first  place,  with  violent  decision,  the 
great  transition  from  sun  to  shade,  and  then  varying  the 
shade  itself  with  a  thousand  gentle  gradations  and  double 
shadows,  in  themselves  equivalent,  and  more  than  equiva- 
lent, to  all  that  the  old  masters  did  for  their  entire  chiaros- 
curo. 

Now  if  there  be  one  principle,  or  secret  more  than  another, 
on  which  Turner  depends  for  attaining  brilliancy  of  light,  it 
is  his  clear  and  exquisite  drawing  of  the  shadows.  What- 
§5  Theperfec-  ^^^^^  obscure,  misty,  or  undefined  in  his  ob- 
tion  of  Turner's  -jects  or  his  atmosphere,  he  takes  care  that  the 

works  m  this  re-  i        i  i 

spect.  shadows  be  sharp  and  clear — and  then  he  knows 

that  the  light  will  take  care  of  itself,  and  he  makes  them 
clear,  not  by  blackness,  but  by  excessive  evenness,  unity, 
and  sharpness  of  edge.  He  will  keep  them  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, and  make  them  felt  as  shadows,  though  they  are  so 
faint,  that,  but  for  their  decisive  forms,  we  should  not  have 
observed  them  for  darkness  at  all.  He  will  throw  them  one 
after  another  like  transparent  veils,  along  the  earth  and  upon 
the  air,  till  the  whole  picture  palpitates  with  them,  and  yet 
the  darkest  of  them  will  be  a  faint  gray,  imbued  and  pene- 
trated with  light.  The  pavement  on  the  left  of  the  Hero 
and  Leander,  is  about  the  most  thorough  piece  of  this  kind 
of  sorcery  that  I  remember  in  art  ;  but  of  the  general  prin- 
ciple, not  one  of  his  works  is  without  constant  evidence. 
Take  the  vignette  of  the  garden  opposite  the  title-page  of 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CniAROSCURO, 


249 


Rogers's  Poems,  and  note  the  drawing  of  the  nearest  balus- 
trade on  the  right.  The  balusters  themselves  are  faint  and 
misty,  and  the  light  through  them  feeble  ;  but  the  shadows 
of  them  are  sharp  and  dark,  and  the  intervening  light  as  in- 
tense as  it  can  be  left.  And  see  how  much  more  distinct 
the  shadow  of  the  running  figure  is  on  the  pavement,  than 
the  checkers  of  the  pavement  itself.  Observe  the  shadows  on 
the  trupk  of  the  tree  at  page  91,  how  they  conquer  all  the 
details  of  the  trunk  itself,  and  become  darker  and  more  con- 
spicuous than  any  part  of  the  boughs  or  limbs,  and  so  in 
the  vignette  to  Campbell's  Beechtree's  Petition.  Take  the 
beautiful  concentration  of  all  that  is  most  characteristic  of 
Italy  as  she  is,  at  page  168  of  Rogers's  Italy,  where  we  have 
the  long  shadows  of  the  trunks  made  by  far  the  most  con- 
spicuous thing  in  the  whole  foreground,  and  hear  how 
Wordsworth,  the  keenest-eyed  of  all  modern  poets  for  what 
is  deep  and  essential  in  nature,  illustrates  Turner  here,  as 
we  shall  find  him  doing  in  all  other  points. 

Atthe  root 

Of  that  tall  pine,  the  shadow  of  whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I  sit  at  eve, 
Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a  long  straight  path, 
Traced  faintly  in  the  greensward." 

Excursion,  Book  VI. 

So  again  in  the  Rhymer's  Glen,  (Illustrations  to  Scott,) 
note  the  intertwining  of  the  shadows  across  the  path,  and 
the  checkering  of  the  trunks  by  them  ;  and  again  on  the 
bridge  in  the  Armstrong's  Tower  ;  and  yet  more  in  the  long 
avenue  of  Brienne,  where  we  have  a  length  of  two  or  three 
miles  expressed  by  the  playing  shadows  alone,  and  the  whole 
picture  filled  with  sunshine  by  the  long  lines  of  darkness 
cast  by  the  figures  on  the  snow.  The  Hampton  Court  in 
the  England  series,  is  another  very  striking  instance.  In 
fact,  the  general  system  of  execution  observable  in  all  Turn- 
er's drawings,  is  to  work  his  grounds  richly  and  fully,  some- 
times stippling,  and  giving  infinity  of  delicate,  mysterious, 
and  ceaseless  detail  ;  and  on  the  ground  so  prepared  to  cast 
his  shadows  with  one  dash  of  the  brush,  leaving  an  exces- 


250 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO, 


sively  sharp  edge  of  watery  color.  Such  at  least  is  com- 
monly the  case  in  such  coarse  and  broad  instances  as  those 
o  b        «  ^  *  I  have  above  oriven.    Words  are  not  accurate 

§  6.  The  effect  of  o 

h^s  shadows  upon  enough,  nor  delicate  enough  to  express  or  trace 
the  constant,  all-pervading  influence  of  the  finer 
and  vaguer  shadovs^s  throughout  his  works,  that  thrilling 
influence  which  gives  to  the  light  they  leave,  its  passion  and 
its  power.  There  is  not  a  stone,  not  a  leaf,  not  a  cloud,  over 
which  light  is  not  felt  to  be  actually  passing  and  palpitating 
before  our  eyes.  There  is  the  motion,  the  actual  wave  and 
radiation  of  the  darted  beam — not  the  dull  universal  day- 
light, which  falls  on  the  landscape  without  life,  or  direction, 
or  speculation,  equal  on  all  things  and  dead  on  all  things  ; 
but  the  breathing,  animated,  exulting  light,  which  feels,  and 
receives,  and  rejoices,  and  acts — which  chooses  one  thing 
and  rejects  another — which  seeks,  and  finds,  and  loses  again 
— leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  from  leaf  to  leaf,  from  wave  to 
wave, — glowing,  or  flashing,  or  scintillating,  according  to 
what  it  strikes,  or  in  its  holier  moods,  absorbing  and  enfold- 
ing all  things  in  the  deep  fulness  of  its  repose,  and  then 
again  losing  itself  in  bewilderment,  and  doubt,  and  dimness  ; 
or  perishing  and  passing  away,  entangled  in  drifting  mist, 
or  melted  into  melancholy  air,  but  still, — kindling,  or  declin- 
ing, sparkling  or  still,  it  is  the  living  light,  which  breathes 
in  its  deepest,  most  entranced  rest,  which  sleeps,  but  never 
dies. 

I  need  scarcely  insist  farther  on  the  marked  distinction 
between  the  works  of  the  old  masters  and  those  of  the  great 
modern  landscape-painters  in  this  respect.  It  is  one  which 
§  7.  The  distinc-  the  reader  can  perfectly  well  work  out  for  him- 
between^aimo^st  Self,  by  the  slightest  Systematic  attention, — one 
the^'ancS^lnd  ^^ich  he  will  find  existing,  not  merely  between 
modern  schools,  this  work  and  that,  but  throughout  the  whole 
body  of  their  productions,  and  down  to  every  leaf  and  line. 
And  a  little  careful  watching  of  nature,  especially  in  her 
foliage  and  foregrounds,  and  comparison  of  her  with  Claude, 
Gaspar  Poussin,  and  Salvator,  will  soon  show  him  that 
those  artists  worked  entirely  on  conventional  principles,  not 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO.  251 


representing  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  thought  would 
make  a  handsome  picture  ;  and  even  when  they  went  to 
nature,  which  I  believe  to  have  been  a  very  much  rarer 
practice  with  them  than  their  biographers  would  have  us 
suppose,  they  copied  her  like  children,  drawing  what  they 
knew  to  be  there,  but  not  what  they  saw  there.*  I  believe 
you  may  search  the  foregrounds  of  Claude,  from  one  end  of 
Europe  to  another,  and  you  will  not  find  the  shadow  of  one 
leaf  cast  upon  another.  You  will  find  leaf  after  leaf  painted 
more  or  less  boldly  or  brightly  out  of  the  black  ground,  and 
you  will  find  dark  leaves  defined  in  perfect  form  upon  the 
light  ;  but  you  will  not  find  the  form  of  a  single  leaf  dis- 
guised or  interrupted  by  the  shadow  of  another.  And 
Poussin  and  Salvator  are  still  farther  from  anything  like 
genuine  truth.  There  is  nothing  in  their  pictures  which 
might  not  be  manufactured  in  their  painting-room,  with  a 
branch  or  two  of  brambles  and  a  bunch  or  two  of  weeds  be- 
fore them,  to  give  them  the  form  of  the  leaves.  And  it  is 
refreshing  to  turn  from  their  ignorant  and  impotent  repeti- 
tions of  childish  conception,  to  the  clear,  close,  genuine 
studies  of  modern  artists  ;  for  it  is  not  Turner  only,  (though 
here,  as  in  all  other  points,  the  first,)  who  is  remarkable  for 
fine  and  expressive  decision  of  chiaroscuro.  Some  passages 
by  J.  D.  Harding  are  thoroughly  admirable  in  this  respect, 
though  this  master  is  getting  a  little  too  much  into  a  habit 
of  general  keen  execution,  which  prevents  the  parts  which 
ought  to  be  especially  decisive  from  being  felt  as  such,  and 
which  makes  his  pictures,  especially  the  large  ones,  look  a 
little  thin.  But  some  of  his  later  passages  of  rock  fore- 
ground have,  taken  in  the  abstract,  been  beyond  all  praise, 
owing  to  the  exquisite  forms  and  firm  expressiveness  of  their 
shadows.  And  the  chiaroscuro  of  Stanfield  is  equally  de- 
serving of  the  most  attentive  study. 

The  second  point  to  which  I  wish  at  present  to  direct  at- 
tention has  reference  to  the  arrangement  of  light  and  shade. 
It  is  the  constant  habit  of  nature  to  use  both  her  highest 
lights  and  deepest  shadows  in  exceedingly  small  quantity  \ 
*  Compare  Sect.  II.  Chap.  11.  §  6. 


252 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO. 


always  in  points,  never  in  masses.  She  will  give  a  large 
mass  of  tender  light  in  sky  or  water,  impressive  by  its  quan- 
tity, and  a  large  mass  of  tender  shadow  relieved  against  it, 
§8.  Second  great  in  foliage,  or  hill,  or  building  ;  but  the  light  is 
oscnro^^othhTgh  always  subdued  if  it  be  extensive — the  shadow 
Sow'are  uZ  ^Iways  feeble  if  be  broad.  She  will  then  fill  up 
in  equal  quantity        the  rest  of  her  picture  wdth  middle  tints 

and     only     m  -t^ 

points.  and  pale  grays  of  some  sort  or  another,  and 

on  this  quiet  and  harmonious  whole,  she  will  touch  her 
high  lights  in  spots — the  foam  of  an  isolated  wave — the  sail 
of  a  solitary  vessel — the  flash  of  the  sun  from  a  wet  roof — 
the  gleam  of  a  single  whitewashed  cottage — or  some  such 
sources  of  local  brilliancy,  she  will  use  so  vividly  and  del- 
icately as  to  throw  everything  else  into  definite  shade  by 
comparison.  And  then  taking  up  the  gloom,  she  will  use 
the  black  hollows  of  some  overhanging  bank,  or  the  black 
dress  of  some  shaded  figure,  or  the  depth  of  some  sunless 
chink  of  wall  or  window,  so  sharply  as  to  throw  everything 
else  into  definite  light  by  comparison  ;  thus  reducing  the 
whole  mass  of  her  picture  to  a  delicate  middle  tint,  approach- 
ing, of  course,  here  to  light,  and  there  to  gloom  ;  but  yet 
sharply  separated  from  the  utmost  degrees  either  of  the  one 
or  the  other. 

Now  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  none  of  our  writers  on  art 
seem  to  have  noticed  the  great  principle  of  nature  in  this 
respect.  They  all  talk  of  deep  shadow  as  a  thing  that  may 
§9.  Neglect  or  be  given  in  quantity, — one-fourth  of  the  pict- 
thrJ'p^indpie  by  Certain  effects,  much  more.  Barry, 

writers  on  art.  foj.  instance,  says  that  the  practice  of  the  great 
painters,  who  "  best  understood  the  effects  of  chiaroscuro," 
was,  for  the  most  part,  to  make  the  mass  of  middle  tint 
larger  than  the  light,  and  the  mass  of  dark  larger  than 
the  masses  of  light  and  middle  tint  together,  i.e.^  occu- 
pying more  than  one-half  of  the  picture.  Now  I  do 
not  know  what  we  are  to  suppose  is  meant  by  "  under- 
standing chiaroscuro."  If  it  means  being  able  to  manu- 
facture agreeable  patterns  in  the  shape  of  pyramids,  and 
crosses,  and  zigzags,  into  which  arms  and  legs  are  to  be 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO.  253 


persuaded,  and  passion  and  motion  arranged,  for  the  promo- 
tion and  encouragement  of  the  cant  of  criticism,  such  a  prin- 
ciple may  be  productive  of  the  most  advantageous  results. 
But  if  it  means,  being  acquainted  with  the  deep,  perpetual, 
systematic,  unintrusive  simplicity  and  unwearied  variety  of 
nature's  chiaroscuro — if  it  means  the  perception  that  black- 
ness and  sublimity  are  not  synonymous,  and  that  space  and 
light  may  possibly  be  coadjutors — then  no  man,  who  ever 
advocated  or  dreamed  of  such  a  principle,  is 

§  10.  And  conse-  ,  •         ui      J  j 

quent  misguiding  anything  more  than  a  novice,  blunderer,  and 

of  the  student,       i   '  ^    i         •         t_*  aj  h  it/? 

trickster  in  chiaroscuro.  And  my  firm  belief 
is,  that  though  color  is  inveighed  against  by  all  artists,  as 
the  great  Circe  of  art — the  great  transformer  of  mind  into 
sensuality — no  fondness  for  it,  no  study  of  it,  is  half  so  great 
a  peril  and  stumbling-block  to  the  young  student,  as  the 
admiration  he  hears  bestowed  on  such  artificial,  false,  and 
juggling  chiaroscuro,  and  the  instruction  he  receives,  based 
on  such  principles  as  that  given  us  by  Fuseli — that  "  mere 
natural  light  and  shade,  however  separately  or  individually 
true,  is  not  always  legitimate  chiaroscuro  in  art."  It  may 
not  always  be  agreeable  to  a  sophisticated,  unfeeling,  and 
perverted  mind  ;  but  the  student  had  better  throw  up  his 
art  at  once,  than  proceed  on  the  conviction  that  any  other 
can  ever  be  legitimate,  I  believe  I  shall  be  perfectly  well 
able  to  prove,  in  following  parts  of  the  work,  that  mere 
natural  light  and  shade  "  is  the  only  fit  and  faithful  attend- 
ant of  the  highest  art  ;  and  that  all  tricks — all  visible,  in- 
tended arrangement  —  all  extended  shadows  and  narrow 
lights — everything  in  fact,  in  the  least  degree  artificial,  or 
tending  to  make  the  mind  dwell  upon  light  and  shade  as 
such,  is  an  injury,  instead  of  an  aid,  to  conceptions  of  high 
ideal  dignity.  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  also  to  show,  that 
nature  manages  her  chiaroscuro  a  great  deal  more  neatly 
and  cleverly  than  people  fancy  ; — that  "mere  natural  light 
and  shade  "  is  a  very  much  finer  thing  than  most  artists  can 
put  together,  and  that  none  think  they  can  improve  upon  it 
but  those  who  never  understood  it. 

But  however  this  may  be,  it  is  beyond  dispute  that  every 


254 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO. 


permission  given  to  the  student  to  amuse  himself  with  paint- 
ing one  figure  all  black,  and  the  next  all  white,  and  throwing 
them  out  with  a  backo^round  of  nothing^ — every 

§  11.  The  great  .     .  .         ,     i  °     ^  -i  i  •  i  f 

value  of  a  simple  permission  giveu  to  him  to  spoil  his  pocketbook 
chiaroscuro.  ^ith  sixths  of  suushine  and  sevenths  of  shade, 
and  other  such  fractional  sublimities,  is  so  much  more  diffi- 
culty laid  in  the  way  of  his  ever  becoming  a  master  ;  and  that 
none  are  in  the  right  road  to  real  excellence,  but  those  who 
are  struggling  to  render  the  simplicity,  purity,  and  inexhausti- 
ble variety  of  nature's  own  chiaroscuro  in  open,  cloudless 
daylight,  giving  the  expanse  of  harmonious  light — the  speak- 
ing, decisive  shadow — and  the  exquisite  grace,  tenderness, 
and  grandeur  of  aerial  opposition  of  local  color  and  equally 
illuminated  lines.  No  chiaroscuro  is  so  difficult  as  this  ;  and 
none  so  noble,  chaste,  or  impressive.  On  this  part  of  the 
subject,  however,  I  must  not  enlarge  at  present.  I  wish  now 
only  to  speak  of  those  great  principles  of  chiaroscuro,  which 
nature  observes,  even  when  she  is  most  working  for  effect — 
when  she  is  playing  with  thunderclouds  and  sunbeams,  and 
throwing  one  thing  out  and  obscuring  another,  with  the  most 
marked  artistical  feeling  and  intention  ; — even  then,  she  never 
forgets  her  great  rule,  to  give  precisely  the  same  quantity  of 
deepest  shade  which  she  does  of  highest  light,  and  no  more  ; 
points  of  the  one  answering  to  points  of  the  other,  and  both 
vividly  conspicuous  and  separated  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
landscape. 

And  it  is  most  singular  that  this  separation,  which  is  the 
great  source  of  brilliancy  in  nature,  should  not  only  be  unob- 
served, but  absolutely  forbidden  by  our  great  writers  on  art, 
§  12.  The  sharp  ^^o  are  always  talking  about  connecting  the 
SThghts^'from  ^^E^^  ^i^^  ^^^^  shade  by  imperceptible  gradations. 
her  middle  tint.  Now  SO  surely  as  this  is  done,  all  sunshine  is 
lost,  for  imperceptible  gradation  from  light  to  dark  is  the 
characteristic  of  objects  seen  out  of  sunshine,  in  what  is,  in 
landscape,  shadow.  Nature's  principle  of  getting  light  is  the 
direct  reverse.  She  will  cover  her  whole  landscape  with  mid- 
dle tint,  in  which  she  will  have  as  many  gradations  as  you 
please,  and  a  great  many  more  than  you  can  paint  ;  but  on 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CHIAROSCURO, 


255 


this  middle  tint  she  touches  her  extreme  lights,  and  extreme 
darks,  isolated  and  sharp,  so  that  the  eye  goes  to  them  di- 
rectly, and  feels  them  to  be  key-notes  of  the  whole  composi- 
tion. And  although  the  dark  touches  are  less  attractive  than 
the  light  ones,  it  is  not  because  they  are  less  distinct,  but  be- 
cause they  exhibit  nothing  ;  while  the  bright  touches  are  in 
parts  where  everything  is  seen,  and  where  in  consequence  the 
eye  goes  to  rest.  But  yet  the  high  lights  do  not  exhibit  any- 
thing in  themselves,  they  are  too  bright  and  dazzle  the  eye  ; 
and  having  no  shadows  in  them,  cannot  exhibit  form,  for  form 
can  only  be  seen  by  shadow  of  some  kind  or  another.  Hence 
the  highest  lights  and  deepest  darks  agree  in  this,  that  noth- 
ing is  seen  in  either  of  them  ;  that  both  are  in  exceedingly 
small  quantity,  and  both  are  marked  and  distinct  from  the 
middle  tones  of  the  landscape — the  one  by  their  brilliancy, 
the  other  by  their  sharp  edges,  even  though  m.any  of  the  more 
energetic  middle  tints  may  approach  their  intensity  very 
closely. 

I  need  scarcely  do  more  than  tell  you  to  glance  at  any  one 
of  the  works  of  Turner,  and  you  will  perceive  in  a  moment 
the  exquisite  observation  of  all  these  principles  ;  the  sharp- 
§  13.  The  truth  ness,  decision,  conspicuousness,  and  excessively 
of  Turner.  small  quantity,  both  of  extreme  light  and  ex- 
treme shade,  all  the  mass  of  the  picture  being  graduated  and 
delicate  middle  tint.  Take  up  the  Rivers  of  France,  for  in- 
stance, and  turn  over  a  few  of  the  plates  in  succession. 

1.  Chateau  Gaillard  (vignette.)— Black  figures  and  boats, 
points  of  shade  ;  sun-touches  on  castle,  and  wake  of  boat,  of 
light.  See  how  the  eye  rests  on  both,  and  observe  how  sharp 
and  separate  all  the  lights  are,  falling  in  spots,  edged  by 
shadow,  but  not  melting  off  into  it. 

2.  Orleans. — The  crowded  figures  supply  both  points  of 
shade  and  light.  Observe  the  delicate  middle  tint  of  both 
in  the  whole  mass  of  buildings,  and  compare  this  with  the 
blackness  of  Canaletto's  shadows,  against  which  neither  fig- 
ures nor  anything  else  can  ever  tell,  as  points  of  shade. 

3.  Blois. — White  figures  in  boats,  buttresses  of  bridge, 
dome  of  church  on  the  right,  for  light  ;  woman  on  horse' 


256 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CniAROSCURO, 


back,  heads  of  boats,  for  shadow.  Note  especially  the  isola- 
tion of  the  light  on  the  church  dome. 

4.  Chateau  de  Blois. — Torches  and  white  figures  for  light, 
roof  of  chapel  and  monks'  dresses  for  shade. 

5.  Beaugencj. — Sails  and  spire  opposed  to  buoy  and  boats. 
An  exquisite  instance  of  brilliant,  sparkling,  isolated  touches 
of  morning  light. 

6.  Amboise. — White  sail  and  clouds  ;  cypresses  under 
castle. 

7.  Chauteau  of  Amboise. — The  boat  in  the  centre,  with 
its  reflections,  needs  no  comment.  Note  the  glancing  lights 
under  the  bridge.  This  is  a  very  glorious  and  perfect  in- 
stance. 

8.  St.  Julien,  Tours. — Especially  remarkable  for  its  preser- 
vation of  deep  points  of  gloom,  because  the  whole  picture  is 
one  of  extended  shade. 

I  need  scarcely  go  on.  The  above  instances  are  taken  as 
they  happen  to  come,  without  selection.  The  reader  can 
proceed  for  himself.  I  may,  however,  name  a  few  cases  of 
chiaroscuro  more  especially  deserving  of  his  study.  Scene 
between  Quilleboeuf  and  Villequier, — Honfleur, — Light  Tow- 
ers of  the  Heve, — On  the  Seine  between  Mantes  and  Yernon, 
— The  Lantern  at  St.  Cloud, — Confluence  of  Seine  andMarne, 
— Troyes, — the  first  and  last  vignette,  and  those  at  pages  36, 
63,  95,  184,  192,  203,  of  Rogers's  poems  ;  the  first  and  second 
in  Campbell,  St.  Maurice  in  the  Italy,  where  note  the  black 
stork  ;  Brienne,  Skiddaw,  Mayburgh,  Melrose,  Jedburgh,  in 
the  illustrations  to  Scott,  and  the  vignettes  to  Milton,  not 
because  these  are  one  whit  superior  to  others  of  his  works, 
but  because  the  laws  of  which  we  have  been  speaking  are 
more  strikingly  developed  in  them,  and  because  they  have 
been  well  engraved.  It  is  impossible  to  reason  from  the 
larger  plates,  in  which  half  the  chiaroscuro  is  totally  de- 
stroyed by  the  haggling,  blackening,  and  making  out  "  of 
the  engravers. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


257 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE  :  FIRST,  AS  DEPENDENT  ON  THE  FOCUS 

OF  THE  EYE.* 

In  the  first  chapter  of  this  section  I  noticed  the  distinction 
between  real  aerial  perspective,  and  that  overcharged  con- 
trast of  light  and  shade  by  which  the  old  masters  obtained 
§  1.  Space  is  their  deceptive  effect  ;  and  I  showed  that, 
dicated^^by ^  the  though  inferior  to  them  in  the  precise  quality 
fe^c t™thaii  *by  tonc  of  aerial  color,  our  great  modern  master 
their  hue.  jg  altogether  more  truthful  in  the  expression  of 

the  proportionate  relation  of  all  his  distances  to  one  another. 
I  am  now  about  to  examine  those  modes  of  expressing  space, 
both  in  nature  and  art  by  far  the  most  important,  which  are 
dependent,  not  on  the  relative  hues  of  objects,  but  on  the 
drawing  of  them  :  by  far  the  most  important,  I  say,  because 
the  most  constant  and  certain  ;  for  nature  herself  is  not  al- 
ways aerial.  Local  effects  are  frequent  which  interrupt  and 
violate  the  laws  of  aerial  tone,  and  induce  strange  deception 
in  our  ideas  of  distance.  I  have  often  seen  the  summit  of  a 
snowy  mountain  look  nearer  than  its  base,  owing  to  the  per- 
fect clearness  of  the  upper  air.  But  the  drawing  of  objects, 
that  is  to  say,  tjie  degree  in  which  their  details  and  parts 
are  distinct  or  confused,  is  an  unfailing  and  certain  criterion 
of  their  distance  ;  and  if  this  be  rightly  rendered  in  a  paint- 
ing, we  shall  have  genuine  truth  of  space,  in  spite  of  many 
errors  in  aerial  tone  ;  while,  if  this  be  neglected,  all  space 

*  I  have  left  this  chapter  in  its  original  place,  because  I  am  more 
than  ever  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  pasition  advanced  in  the  8th 
paragraph  ;  nor  can  I  at  present  assign  any  other  cause,  than  that  here 
given,  for  what  is  there  asserted  ;  and  yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  I 
have  allowed  far  too  much  influence  to  a  change  so  slight  as  that  which 
we  insensibly  make  in  the  focus  of  the  eye  ;  and  that  the  real  justifica- 
tion of  Turner's  practice,  with  respect  to  some  of  his  foregrounds,  is  to 
be  elsewhere  sought.  I  leave  the  subject,  therefore,  to  the  reader's 
consideration. 

Vol.  I. -17 


258 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


will  be  destroyed,  whatever  dexterity  of  tint  may  be  em- 
ployed to/3onceal  the  defective  drawing. 

First,  then,  it  is  to  be  noticed,  that  the  eye,  like  any  other 
lens,  must  have  its  focus  altered,  in  order  to  convey  a  dis- 
tinct image  of  objects  at  different  distances  ;  so  that  it  is 
§2  itisimpossi  ^^^^^^J  impossible  to  see  distinctly,  at  the  same 
bie  to  see  objects  moment,  two  objects,  one  of  which  is  much 

at  unequal    dis-    „      ,  np    i  i  r\p    ^  - 

tances  distinctly  farther  Oil  than  another.    Oi  this,  any  one  may 

at  one  moment.  .  |.  t-i       .  i 

convince  himseii  in  an  instant.  Look  at  the 
bars  of  your  window-frame,  so  as  to  get  a  clear  image  of 
their  lines  and  form,  and  you  cannot,  while  your  eye  is  fixed 
on  them,  perceive  anything  but  the  most  indistinct  and 
shadowy  images  of  whatever  objects  may  be  visible  beyond. 
But  fix  your  eyes  on  those  objects,  so  as  to  see  them  clearly, 
and  though  they  are  just  beyond  and  apparently  beside  the 
window-frame,  that  frame  will  only  be  felt  or  seen  as  a  vague, 
flitting,  obscure  interruption  to  whatever  is  perceived  beyond 
it.  A  little  attention  directed  to  this  fact  will  convince 
every  one  of  its  universality,  and  prove  beyond  dispute  that 
objects  at  unequal  distances  cannot  be  seen  together,  not 
from  the  intervention  of  air  or  mist,  but  from  the  impossibil- 
ity of  the  rays  proceeding  from  both,  converging  to  the  same 
focus,  so  that  the  whole  impression,  either  of  one  or  the  other, 
must  necessarily  be  confused,  indistinct,  and  inadequate. 

But,  be  it  observed  (and  I  have  only  to  request  that  what- 
ever I  say  may  be  tested  by  immediate  experiment,)  the  dif- 
ference of  focus  necessary  is  greatest  within  the  first  five 
§  3.  Especially  hundred  yards,  and  therefore,  though  it  is  totally 
compamtTvety  impossible  to  see  an  object  ten  yards  from  the 
eye,  and  one  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  it,  at 
the  same  moment,  it  is  perfectly  possible  to  see  one  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  ofP,  and  one  five  miles  beyond  it,  at  the  same 
moment.  The  consequence  of  this  is,  practically,  that  in  a 
real  landscape,  we  can  see  the  whole  of  what  would  be  called 
the  middle  distance  and  distance  together,  with  facility  and 
clearness  ;  but  while  we  do  so  we  can  see  nothing  in  the 
foreground  beyond  a  vague  and  indistinct  arrangement  of 
lines  and  colors  ;  and  that  if,  on  the  contrary,  we  look  at 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE, 


259 


any  foreground  object,  so  as  to  receive  a  distinct  impression 
of  it,  the  distance  and  middle  distance  become  all  disorder 
and  mystery. 

And  therefore,  if  in  a  painting  our  foreground  is  anything, 
our  distance  must  be  nothing,  and  vice  versa;  for  if  we 
represent  our  near  and  distant  objects  as  giving  both  at  once 
§  4.  In  painting,  that  distinct  image  to  the  eye,  which  we  receive 
thr^^oregroimd  in  nature  from  each,  when  we  look  at  them  sep- 
be  paSiaiiy^ac-  irately  ;  *  and  if  we  distinguish  them  from  each 
rificed.  other  Only  by  the  air-tone  ;  and  indistinctness 

dependent  on  positive  distance,  we  violate  one  of  the  most 
essential  principles  of  nature  ;  we  represent  that  as  seen  at 
once  which  can  only  be  seen  by  two  separate  acts  of  seeing, 
and  tell  a  falsehood  as  gross  as  if  we  had  represented  four 
sides  of  a  cubic  object  visible  together. 

Now,  to  this  fact  and  principle,  no  landscape  painter  of 
the  old  school,  as  far  as  I  remember,  ever  paid  the  slightest 
attention.  Finishing  their  foregrounds  clearly  and  sharply, 
§5  Which  not  with  vigorous  impression  on  the  eye,  giving 
th^"^id  ^^^ste^^  even  the  leaves  of  their  bushes  and  grass  with 
they  could  not  perfect  edge  and  shape,  they  proceeded  into  the 
express  space.     (jigtance  with  equal  attention  to  what  they  could 

*  This  incapacity  of  the  eye  must  not  be  confounded  with  its  incapa- 
bility to  comprehend  a  large  portion  of  lateral  space  at  once.  We  in- 
deed can  see,  at  any  one  moment,  little  more  than  one  point,  the  objects 
beside  it  being  confused  and  indistinct ;  but  we  need  pay  no  attention 
to  this  in  art,  because  we  can  see  just  as  little  of  the  picture  as  we  can 
of  the  landscape  without  turning  the  eye,  and  hence  any  slurring  or 
confusing  of  one  part  of  it,  laterally,  more  than  another,  is  not  founded 
on  any  truth  of  nature,  but  is  an  expedient  of  the  artist — and  often  an 
excellent  and  desirable  one — to  make  the  eye  rest  where  he  wishes  it. 
But  as  the  touch  expressive  of  a  distant  object  is  as  near  upon  the  can- 
vas as  that  expressive  of  a  near  one,  both  are  seen  distinctly  and  with 
the  same  focus  of  the  eye,  and  hence  an  immediate  contradiction  of 
nature  results,  unless  one  or  other  be  given  with  an  artificial  and  in- 
creased indistinctness,  expressive  of  the  appearance  peculiar  to  the  un- 
adapted  focus.  On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  noted  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  effect  above  described  is  consequent  not  on  variation  of 
focus,  but  on  the  different  angle  at  which  near  objects  are  seen  by  each 
of  the  two  eyes,  when  bo^h  are  directed  towards  the  distance. 


260 


OF  TBUTH  OF  SPACE. 


see  of  its  details — they  gave  all  that  the  eye  can  perceive  in 
a  distance,  when  it  is  fully  and  entirely  devoted  to  it,  and 
therefore,  though  masters  of  aerial  tone,  though  employing 
every  expedient  that  art  could  supply  to  conceal  the  inter- 
section of  lines,  though  caricaturing  the  force  and  shadow  of 
near  objects  to  throw  them  close  upon  the  eye,  they  suc- 
ceeded in  truly  representing  space.  Turner  introduced  a  new 
§6  But  modern  landscape  art,  by  showing  that  the  fore- 

artists  have  sue-  o;round  misrht  be  sunk  for  the  distance,  and  that 

ceeded  in   fully   ^  -i  i  .  .  , 

carrying  out  this  it  was  possiblc  to  cxprcss  immediate  proximity 
principle.  Spectator,  without  giving  anything  like 

completeness  to  the  forms  of  the  near  objects.  This  is  not 
done  by  slurred  or  soft  lines,  observe,  (always  the  sign  of  vice 
in  art,)  but  by  a  decisive  imperfection,  a  firm,  but  partial  asser- 
tion of  form,  which  the  eye  feels  indeed  to  be  close  home  to 
it,  and  yet  cannot-rest  upon,  or  cling  to,  nor  entirely  under- 
stand, and  from  which  it  is  driven  away  of  necessity,  to  those 
parts  of  distance  on  which  it  is  intended  to  repose.  And 
this  principle,  originated  by  Turner,  though  fully  carried  out 
by  him  only,  has  yet  been  acted  on  with  judgment  and  suc- 
cess by  several  less  powerful  artists  of  the  English  school. 
Some  six  years  ago,  the  brown  moorland  foregrounds  of  Cop- 
ley Fielding  were  very  instructive  in  this  respect.  Not  a 
line  in  them  was  made  out,  not  a  single  object  clearly  dis- 
tinguishable. Wet  broad  sweeps  of  the  brush,  sparkling, 
careless,  and  accidental  as  nature  herself,  always  truthful  as 
far  as  they  went,  implying  knowledge,  though  not  express- 
ing it,  suggested  everything,  while  they  represented  nothing. 
But  far  off  into  the  mountain  distance  came  the  sharp  edge 
and  the  delicate  form  ;  the  whole  intention  and  execution  of 
the  picture  being  guided  and  exerted  where  the  great  im- 
pression of  space  and  size  was  to  be  given.  The  spectator 
was  compelled  to  go  forward  into  the  waste  of  hills — there, 
where  the  sun  broke  wide  upon  the  moor,  he  must  walk  and 
wander — he  could  not  stumble  and  hesitate  over  the  near 
rocks,  nor  stop  to  botanize  on  the  first  inches  of  his  path.* 

*  There  is  no  inconsistency,  observe,  between  this  passage  and  what 
was  before  asserted  respecting  the  necessity  of  botanical  fidelity — where 


OF  TBUTH  OF  SPACE, 


261 


And  the  impression  of  these  pictures  was  always  great  and 
enduring,  as  it  was  simple  and  truthful.  I  do  not  know  any- 
thing in  art  which  has  expressed  more  completely  the  force 
and  feeling  of  nature  in  these  particular  scenes.  And  it  is  a 
farther  iriustration  *  of  the  principle  we  are  insisting  upon, 
that  where,  as  in  some  of  his  later  works,  he  has  bestowed 
more  labor  on  the  foreground,  the  picture  has  lost  both  in 
space  and  sublimity.  And  among  artists  in  general,  who  are 
either  not  aware  of  the  principle,  or  fear  to  act  upon  it,  (for 
it  requires  no  small  courage,  ^s  well  as  skill,  to  treat  a  fore- 
ground with  that  indistinctness  and  mystery  which  they  have 
been  accustomed  to  consider  as  characteristic  of  distance,) 
the  foreground  is  not  only  felt,  as  every  landscape  painter 
will  confess,  to  be  the  most  embarrassing  and  unmanageable 
part  of  the  picture,  but,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hun- 
dred, will  go  near  to  destroy  the  effect  of  the  rest  of  the  com- 
position. Thus  Callcott's  Trent  is  severely  injured  by  the 
harsh  group  of  foreground  figures  ;  and  Stanfield  very  rarely 
gets  through  an  Academy  picture  without  destroying  much 
of  its  space,  by  too  much  determination  of  near  form  ; 
while  Harding  constantly  sacrifices  his  distance,  and  com- 
pels the  ■  spectator  to  dwell  on  the  foreground  altogether, 
though  indeed,  with  such  foregrounds  as  he  gives  us,  we 
are  most  happy  so  to  do.  But  it  is  in  Turner  only  that  we  see 
§  7.  Especially  ^  -and  decisive  choice  of  the  distance  and 
of  Turner.  middle  distance,  as  his  great  object  of  attention  ; 
and  by  him  only  that  the  foreground  is  united  and  adapted 
to  it,  not  by  any  want  of  drawing,  or  coarseness,  or  careless- 
ness of  execution,  but  by  the  most  precise  and  beautiful  in- 
dication or  suggestion  of  just  so  much  of  even  the  minutest 
forms  as  the  eye  can  see  when  its  focus  is  not  adapted  to 
them.    And  herein  is  another  reason  for  the  vio:or  and  whole- 

the  foreground  is  the  object  of  attention.  Compare  Part  II.  Sect  I. 
Chap.  VII.  §10:— ''To  paint  mist  rightly,  space  rightly,  ard  light 
rightly,  it  may  be  often  necessary  to  paint  notldng  else  rightly." 

*  Hardly.  It  would  have  been  so  only  had  the  recently  finished  fore- 
grounds been  as  accurate  in  detail  as  they  are  abundant :  they  are  pain- 
ful, I  believe,  not  from  their  finish,  but  their  falseness. 


262 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


ness  of  the  effect  of  Turner's  works  at  any  distance  ;  while 
those  of  almost  all  other  artists  are  sure  to  lose  space  as  soon 
as  we  lose  sight  of  the  details. 

And  now  we  see  the  reason  for  the  singular,  and  to  the  ig- 
norant in  art,  the  offensive  execution  of  Turner's  figures.  I 
do  not  mean  to  assert  that  there  is  any  reason  whatsoever, 
§  8.  Justification  5(^6?  drawing,  (though  in  landscape  it  matters 
dVJ'wiTg^i'n  exceedingly  little  ;)  but  that  there  is  both  rea- 
Turner's  figures,  qqu  and  necessity  for  that  want  of  drawing  which 
gives  even  the  nearest  figures  Bound  balls  with  four  pink  spots 
in  them  instead  of  faces,  and  four  dashes  of  the  brush  instead 
of  hands  and  feet ;  for  it  is  totally  impossible  that  if  the  eye 
be  adapted  to  receive  the  rays  proceeding  from  the  utmost 
distance,  and  some  partial  impression  from  all  the  distances, 
it  should  be  capable  of  perceiving  more  of  the  forms  and  feat- 
ures of  near  figures  than  Turner  gives.  And  how  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  faithful  representation  of  space  this  inde- 
cision really  is,  might  be  proved  with  the  utmost  ease  by  any 
one  who  had  veneration  enough  for  the  artist  to  sacrifice  one 
of  his  pictures  to  his  fame  ;  who  would  take  some  one  of  his 
works  in  which  the  figures  were  most  incomplete,  and  have 
them  painted  in  by  any  of  our  delicate  and  first-rate  figure 
painters,  absolutely  preserving  every  color  and  shade  of  Tur- 
ner's group,  so  as  not  to  lose  one  atom  of  the  composition, 
but  giving  eyes  for  the  pink  spots,  and  feet  for  the  white 
ones.  Let  the  picture  be  so  exhibited  in  the  Academy,  and 
even  novices  in  art  would  feel  at  a  glance  that  its  truth  of 
space  was  gone,  that  every  one  of  its  beauties  and  harmonies 
had  undergone  decomposition,  that  it  was  now  a  grammatical 
solecism,  a  painting  of  impossibilities,  a  thing  to  torture  the 
eye,  and  offend  the  mind. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


263 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF  TEUTH    OF    SPACE  I  SECONDLY,   AS    ITS    APPEARANCE  IS 

DEPENDENT  ON  THE  POWER  OF  THE  EYE. 

In  the  last  chapter,  we  have  seen  how  indistinctness  of  in- 
dividual distances  becomes  necessary  in  order  to  express  the 
adaptation  of  the  eye  to  one  or  other  of  them  ;  we  have  now 
§  1.  The  peculiar  to  examine  that  kind  of  indistinctness  which  is 
peude^f  o^t^^^  dependent  on  real  retirement  of  the  object 
jecis^^fioL^^the  ^^'^^  when  the  focus  of  the  eye  is  fully  concen- 
^y®-  trated  upon  it.    The  first  kind  of  indecision  is 

that  which  belongs  to  all  objects  which  the  eye  is  not 
adapted  to,  whether  near  ,  or  far  off  :  the  second  is  that 
consequent  upon  the  want  of  power  in  the  eye  to  receive  a 
clear  image  of  objects  at  a  great  distance  from  it,  however 
attentively  it  may  regard  them. 

Draw  on  a  piece  of  white  paper,  a  square  and  a  circle,  each 
about  a  twelfth  or  eighth  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  and  blacken 
them  so  that  their  forms  may  be  very  distinct  ;  place  your 
paper  against  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  retire 
from  it  a  greater  or  less  distance  according  as  you  have 
drawn  the  figures  larger  or  smaller.  You  will  come  to  a 
point  where,  though  you  can  see  both  the  spots  with  perfect 
plainness-,  you  cannot  tell  which  is  the  square  and  which  the 
circle. 

Now  this  takes  place  of  course  with  every  object  in  a  land- 
scape, in  proportion  to  its  distance  and  size.  The  definite 
forms  of  the  leaves  of  a  tree,  however  sharply  and  separately 
§2.  Causes  con-  ^^ey  may  appear  to  come  against  the  sky,  are 
anriiMiatiin  "of  ^^^^^  indistinguishable  at  fifty  yards  off,  and  the 
details.  form  of  everything  becomes  confused  before  we 

finally  lose  sight  of  it.  Now  if  the  character  of  an  object, 
say  the  front  of  a  house,  be  explained  by  a  variety  of  forms 
in  it,  as  the  shadows  in  the  tops  of  the  windows,  the  lines  of 
the  architraves,  the  seams  of  the  masonry,  etc.;  these  lesser 


264 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


details,  as  the  object  falls  into  distance,  become  confused  and 
undecided,  each  of  them  losing  their  definite  forms,  but  all 
being  perfectly  visible  as  something,  a  white  or  a  dark  spot  or 
stroke,  not  lost  sight  of,  observe,  but  yet  so  seen  that  we  can- 
not tell  what  they  are.  As  the  distance  increases,  the  confu- 
sion becomes  greater,  until  at  last  the  whole  front  of  the  house 
becomes  merely  a  flat,  pale  space,  in  which,  however,  there 
is  still  observable  a  kind  of  richness  and  checkering,  caused 
by  the  details  in  it,  which,  though  totally  merged  and  lost  in 
the  mass,  have  still  an  influence  on  the  texture  of  that  mass; 
until  at  last  the  whole  house  itself  becomes  a  mere  light  or 
dark  spot  which  we  can  plainly  see,  but  cannot  tell  what  it 
is,  nor  distinguish  it  from  a  stone  or  any  other  object. 

Now  what  I  particularly  wish  to  insist  upon,  is  the  state  of 
vision  in  which  all  the  details  of  an  object  are  seen,  and  yet 
seen  in  such  confusion  and  disorder  that  we  cannot  in  the 
§3.  Instances  in  l^^st  tell  what  they  are,  or  what  they  mean.  It 
various  objects,  jg  m\^t  between  us  and  the  object,  still  less 
is  it  shade,  still  less  is  it  want  of  character  ;  it  is  a  confusion, 
a  mystery,  an  interfering  of  undecided  lines  with  each  other, 
not  a  diminution  of  their  number  ;  window  and  door,  archi- 
trave and  frieze,  all  are  there  :  it  is  no  cold  and  vacant  mass, 
it  is  full  and  rich  and  abundant,  and  yet  you  cannot  see  a 
single  form  so  as  to  know  what  it  is.  Observe  your  friend's 
face  as  he  is  coming  up  to  you  ;  first  it  is  nothing  more  than 
a  white  spot  ;  now  it  is  a  face,  but  you  cannot  see  the  two 
eyes,  nor  the  mouth,  even  as  spots  ;  you  see  a  confusion  of 
lines,  a  something  which  you  know  from  experience  to  be  in- 
dicative of  a  face,  and  yet  you  cannot  tell  how  it  is  so.  Now 
he  is  nearer,  and  you  can  see  the  spots  for  the  eyes  and 
mouth,  but  they  are  not  blank  spots  neither  ;  there  is  detail 
in  them  ;  you  cannot  see  the  lips,  nor  the  teeth,  nor  the 
brows,  and  yet  you  see  more  than  mere  spots  ;  it  is  a  mouth 
and  an  eye,  and  there  is  light  and  sparkle  and  expression  in 
them,  but  nothing  distinct.  Now  he  is  nearer  still,  and  you 
can  see  that  he  is  like  your  friend,  but  you  cannot  tell 
whether  he  is  or  not  :  there  is  a  vaofueness  and  indecision  of 
line  still.    Now  you  are  sure,  but  even  yet  there  are  a 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


265 


thousand  things  in  his  face  which  have  their  effect  in  induc- 
ing the  recognition,  but  which  you  cannot  see  so  as  to  know 
what  they  are. 

Changes  like  these,  and  states  of  vision  corresponding  to 
them,  take  place  wdth  each  and  all  of  the  objects  of  nature, 
and  two  great  principles  of  truth  are  deducible  froin  their 
§4.  Two  great  observation.  First,  place  an  object  as  close  to 
thlt^*^na\u7e^^^^        ^7®  there  is  always  something 

never   distinct,  jjj     which  vou  caunot  See,  exccpt  in  the  hinted 

and    never   va-  "  . 

cant.  and  mysterious  manner  above  described.  You 

can  see  the  texture  of  a  piece  of  dress,  but  you  cannot  see 
the  individual  threads  which  compose  it,  though  they  are  all 
felt,  and  have  each  of  them  influence  on  the  eye.  Secondly, 
place  an  object  as  far  from  the  eye  as  you  like,  and  until  it 
becomes  itself  a  mere  spot,  there  is  always  something  in  it 
which  you  can  see,  though  only  in  the  hinted  manner  above 
described.  Its  shadows  and  lines  and  local  colors  are  not 
lost  sight  of  as  it  retires  ;  they  get  mixed  and  indistinguish- 
able, but  they  are  still  there,  and  there  is  a  difference  always 
perceivable  between  an  object  possessing  such  details  and  a 
flat  or  vacant  space.  The  grass  blades  of  a  meadow  a  mile 
off,  are  so  far  discernible  that  there  will  be  a  marked  differ- 
ence between  its  appearance  and  that  of  a  piece  of  wood 
painted  green.  And  thus  nature  is  never  distinct  and  never 
vacant,  she  is  always  mysterious,  but  always  abundant  ;  you 
always  see  something,  but  you  never  see  all. 

And  thus  arise  that  exquisite  finish  and  fulness  which  God 
has  appointed  to  be  the  perpetual  source  of  fresh  pleasure  to 
the  cultivated  and  observant  eye, — a  finish  which  no  distance 
can  render  invisible,  and  no  nearness  comprehensible  ;  which 
in  every  stone,  every  bough,  every  cloud,  and  every  wave  is 
multiplied  around  us,  forever  presented,  and  forever  exhaust- 
less.  And  hence  in  art,  every  space  or  touch  in  which  we 
can  see  everything,  or  in  which  we  can  see  nothing,  is  false. 
Nothing  can  be  true  which  is  either  complete  or  vacant  ; 
every  touch  is  false  which  does  not  suggest  more  than 
it  represents,  and  every  space  is  false  which  represents 
nothing. 


266 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


Now,  I  would  not  wish  for  any  more  illustrative  or  marked 
examples  of  the  total  contradiction  of  these  two  great  prin- 
ciples, than  the  landscape  works  of  the  old  masters,  taken  as 
§5.  Complete  a  body: — the  Dutch  masters  furnishing  the 

everything,  and  the  Italians  of. 
They^  ar^e'^e^^^^^^^^  Seeing  nothing.  The  rule  with  both  is  indeed 
distinct  or  vacant,  the  Same,  differently  applied.  "You  shall  see 
the  bricks  in  the  wall,  and  be  able  to  count  them,  or  you 
shall  see  nc^^hing  but  a  dead  flat  but  the  Dutch  give  you 
the  bricks,  and  the  Italians  the  flat.  Nature's  rule  being  the 
precise  reverse — "  You  shall  never  be  able  to  count  the 
bricks,  but  you  shall  never  see  a  dead  space." 

Take,  for  instance,  the  street  in  the  centre  of  the  really 
great  landscape  of  Poussin  (great  in  feeling  at  least)  marked 
260  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery.    The  houses  are  dead  square 
masses  with  a  light  side  and  a  dark  side,  and 

§  u.   J  nstances 

from  Nicholas   black  touches  for  windows.  There  is  no  suofo^es- 

X*0USS\T1« 

tion  of  anything  in  any  of  the  spaces,  the  light 
wall  is  dead  gray,  the  dark  wall  dead  gray,  and  the  windows 
dead  black.  How  differently  would  nature  have  treated  us. 
She  would  have  let  us  see  the  Indian  corn  hanging  on  the 
walls,  and  the  image  of  the  Virgin  at  the  angles,  and  the 
sharp,  broken,  broad  shadows  of  the  tiled  eaves,  and  the  deep 
ribbed  tiles  with  the  doves  upon  them,  and  the  carved 
Roman  capital  built  into  the  wall,  and  the  white  and  blue 
stripes  of  the  mattresses  stuffed  out  of  the  windows,  and  the 
flapping  corners  of  the  mat  blinds.  AW  would  have  been 
there  ;  not  as  such,  not  like  the  corn,  nor  blinds,  nor  tiles, 
not  to  be  comprehended  nor  understood,  but  a  confusion  of 
yellow  and  black  spots  and  strokes,  carried  far  too  fine  for 
the  eye  to  follow,  microscopic  in  its  minuteness,  and  filling 
every  atom  and  part  of  space  with  mystery,  out  of  which 
would  have  arranged  itself  the  general  impression  of  truth 
and  life. 

Again,  take  the  distant  city  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
river  in  Claude's  Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Re- 

§  7.  From  Claude.  .  •  tvt  ^         ^^  t  u 

becca,  in  the  National  Grallery.  I  nave  seen 
pany  cities  in  my  life,  and  drawn  not  a  few  \  and  I  have  seen 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE, 


267 


many  fortifications,  fancy  ones  included,  which  frequently 
supply  us  with  very  new  ideas  indeed,  especially  in  matters 
of  proportion  ;  but  I  do  not  remember  ever  having  met  with 
either  a  city  or  a  fortress  entirely  composed  of  round  towers 
of  various  heights  and  sizes,  all  fac-similes  of  each  other, 
and  absolutely  agreeing  in  the  number  of  battlements.  I 
have,  indeed,  some  faint  recollection  of  having  delineated 
such  an  one  in  the  first  page  of  a  spelling-book  when  I  was 
four  years  old  ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  the  dignity  and  per- 
fection of  the  ideal  were  not  appreciated,  and  the  volume 
was  not  considered  to  be  increased  in  value  by  the  frontis- 
piece. WithoTit,  however,  venturing  to  doubt  the  entire 
sublimity  of  the  same  ideal  as  it  occurs  in  Claude,  let  us 
consider  how  nature,  if  she  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
originate  so  perfect  a  conception,  would  have  managed  it  in 
its  details.  Claude  has  permitted  us  to  see  every  battle- 
ment, and  the  first  impulse  we  feel  upon  looking  at  the 
picture  is  to  count  how  many  there  are.  Nature  would  have 
given  us  a  peculiar  confused  roughness  of  the  upper  lines,  a 
multitude  of  intersections  and  spots,  which  we  should  have 
known  from  experience  was  indicative  of  battlements,  but 
which  we  might  as  well  have  thought  of  creating  as  of 
counting.  Claude  has  given  you  the  walls  below  in  one 
dead  void  of  uniform  gray.  There  is  nothing  to  be  seen,  nor 
felt,  nor  guessed  at  in  it  ;  it  is  gray  paint  or  gray  shade, 
whichever  you  may  choose  to  call  it,  but  it  is  nothing  more. 
Nature  would  have  let  you  see,  nay,  would  have  compelled 
you  to  see,  thousands  of  spots  and  lines,  not  one  to  be 
absolutely  understood  or  accounted  for,  but  yet  all  char- 
acteristic and  different  from  each  other  ;  breaking  lights  on  ^ 
shattered  stones,  vague  shadows  from  waving  vegetation, 
irregular  stains  of  time  and  weather,  mouldering  hollows, 
sparkling  casements — all  would  have  been  there — none, 
indeed,  seen  as  such,  none  comprehensible  or  like  them- 
selves, but  all  visible  ;  little  shadows,  and  sparkles,  and 
scratches,  making  that  whole  space  of  color  a  transparent, 
palpitating,  various  infinity. 

Or  take  one  of  Poussin's  extreme  distances,  such  as  ^at  in 


268 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac.  It  is  luminous,  retiring,  delicate  and 
perfect  in  tone,  and  is  quite  complete  enough  to  deceive  and 
§  8.  And  G.  cl^light  the  careless  eye  to  which  all  distances 
Poussin.  2l\kQ  ;  nay,  it  is  perfect  and  masterly,  and 

absolutely  right  if  we  consider  it  as  a  sketch, — as  a  first  plan 
of  a  distance,  afterwards  to  be  carried  out  in  detail.  But  we 
must  remember  that  all  these  alternate  spaces  of  gray  and 
gold  are  not  the  landscape  itself,  but  the  treatment  of  it — 
not  its  substance,  but  its  ligtt  and  shade.  They  are  just 
what  nature  would  cast  over  it,  and  w^rite  upon  it  with  every 
cloud,  but  which  she  would  cast  in  play,  and  without  care- 
fulness, as  matters  of  the  very  smallest  possible  importance. 
All  her  work  and  her  attention  would  be  given  to  bring  out 
from  underneath  this,  and  through  this,  the  forms  and  the 
material  character  which  this  can  only  be  valuable  to  illus- 
trate, not  to  conceal.  Every  one  of  those  broad  spaces  she 
would  linger  over  in  protracted  delight,  teaching  you  fresh 
lessons  in  every  hairsbreadth  of  it,  and  pouring  her  fulness 
of  invention  into  it,  until  the  mind  lost  itself  in  following 
her, —  now  fringing  the  dark  edge  of  the  shadow  with  a 
tufted  line  of  level  forest — now  losing  it  for  an  instant  in 
a  breath  of  mist — then  breaking  it  with  the  white  gleam- 
ing angle  of  a  narrow  brook — then  dwelling  upon  it  again 
in  a  gentle,  mounded,  melting  undulation,  over  the  other 
side  of  which  she  would  carry  you  down  into  a  dusty  space 
of  soft,  crowded  light,  with  the  hedges,  and  the  paths,  and 
the  sprinkled  cottages  and  scattered  trees  mixed  up  and 
mingled  together  in  one  beautiful,  delicate,  impenetrable 
mystery — sparkling  and  melting,  and  passing  away  into  the 
sky,  without  one  line  of  distinctness,  or  one  instant  of 
vacancy. 

Now  it  is,  indeed,  impossible  for  the  painter  to  follow  all 
this — he  cannot  come  up  to  the  same  degree  and  order  of  in- 
finity— but  he  can  give  us  a  lesser  kind  of  infinity.  He  has 
„  ^       .  not  one-thousandth  part  of  the  space  to  occupy 

§  0.  The  impera-  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

tive  necessity,  in  which  nature  has  :  but  he  can,  at  least,  leave  no 

landscape  paint-  r»     i  i  tp 

inf?,  of  fulness  part  of  that  space  vacant  and  unprofitable.  If 

and  finish.  '    ^  .  .  .        .       ^  . ,  , 

nature  carries  out  her  minutia?  over  miles,  he 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE, 


269 


has  no  excuse  for  generalizing  in  inches.  And  if  he  will  only 
give  us  all  he  can,  if  he  will  give  us  a  fulness  as  complete 
and  as  mysterious  as  nature's,  we  will  pardon  him  for  its  be- 
ing the  fulness  of  a  cup  instead  of  an  ocean.  But  we  will 
not  pardon  him,  if,  because  he  has  not  the  mile  to  occupy,  he 
will  not  occupy  the  inch,  and  because  he  has  fewer  means  at 
his  command,  will  leave  half  of  those  in  his  power  unexerted. 
Still  less  will  we  pardon  him  for  mistaking  the  sport  of  nature 
for  her  labor,  and  for  following  her  only  in  her  hour  of  rest, 
without  observing  how  she  has  worked  for  it.  After  spend- 
ing centuries  in  raising  the  forest,  and  guiding  the  river,  and 
modelling  the  mountain,  she  exults  over  her  work  in  buoy- 
ancy of  spirit,  with  playful  sunbeam  and  flying  cloud  ;  but 
the  painter  must  go  through  the  same  labor,  or  he  must  not 
have  the  same  recreation.  Let  him  chisel  his  rock  faithfully, 
and  tuft  his  forest  delicately,  and  then  we  will  allow  him  his 
freaks  of  light  and  shade,  and  thank  him  for  them  ;  but  we 
will  not  be  put  off  with  the  play  before  the  lesson — with  the 
adjunct  instead  of  the  essence — with  the  illustration  instead 
of  the  fact. 

I  am  somewhat  anticipating  my  subject  here,  because  I 
can  scarcely  help  answering  the  objections  which  I  know 
must  arise  in  the  minds  of  most  readers,  especially  of  those 
§10.  Breadth  is  ^ve  partially  artistical,  respecting  "gener- 
not vacancy.  alizatiou,"  breadth,"  "effect,"  etc.  It  were 
to  be  wished  that  our  writers  on  art  would  not  dweil  so  fre- 
quently on  the  necessity  of  breadth,  without  explaining  what 
it  means  ;  and  that  we  had  more  constant  reference  made  to 
the  principle  which  I  can  only  remember  having  seen  once 
clearly  explained  and  insisted  on, — that  breadth  is  not 
vacancy.  Generalization  is  unity,  not  destruction  of  part ; 
and  composition  is  not  annihilation,  but  arrangement  of 
materials.  The  breadth  which  unites  the  truths  of  nature 
with  her  harmonies,  is  meritorious  and  beautiful  ;  but  the 
breadth  which  annihilates  those  truths  by  the  million,  is  not 
painting  nature,  but  painting  over  her.  And  so  the  masses 
which  result  from  right  concords  and  relations  of  details,  are 
sublime  and  impressive  ;  but  the  masses  which  result  from 


270 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


the  eclipse  of  details  are  contemptible  and  painful.*  And 
we  shall  show,  in  following  parts  of  the  work,  that  distances 
like  those  of  Poussin  are  mere  meaningless  tricks  of  clever 
execution,  which,  when  once  discovered,  the  artist  may  re- 
peat over  and  over  again,  with  mechanical  contentment  and 
perfect  satisfaction,  both  to  himself  and  to  his  superficial 
admirers,  with  no  more  exertion  of  intellect  nor  awakening 
of  feeling  than  any  tradesman  has  in  multiplying  some  orna- 
mental pattern  of  furniture.  Be  this  as  it  may,  however, 
(for  we  cannot  enter  upon  the  discussion  of  the  question 
here,)  the  falsity  and  imperfection  of  such  distances  admit 
of  no  dispute.  Beautiful  and  ideal  they  may  be  ;  true  they 
are  not  :  and  in  the  same  way  we  might  go  through  every 
part  and  portion  of  the  w^orks  of  the  old  masters,  showing 
throughout,  either  that  you  have  every  leaf  and  blade  of 
grass  staring  defiance  to  the  mystery  of  nature,  or  that  you 
have  dead  spaces  of  absolute  vacuity,  equally  determined  in 
their  denial  of  her  fulness.  And  even  if  we  ever  find  (as 
here  and  there,  in  their  better  pictures,  we  do)  changeful 
passages  of  agreeable  playing  color,  or  mellow  and  transpar- 
ent modulations  of  mysterious  atmosphere,  even  here  the 
touches,  though  satisfactory  to  the  eye,  are  suggestive  of 
nothing, — they  are  characterless, — they  have  none  of  the 
peculiar  expressiveness  and  meaning  by  which  nature  main- 
tains the  variety  and  interest  even  of  what  she  most  con- 
ceals. She  always  tells  a  story,  however  hintedly  and 
vaguely  ;  each  of  her  touches  is  different  from  all  the  others; 
and  we  feel  with  every  one,  that  though  we  cannot  tell  what 
it  is,  it  cannot  be  anything  /  while  even  the  most  dexterous 
distances  of  the  old  masters  pretend  to  secrecy  without  hav- 
ing anything  to  conceal,  and  are  ambiguous,  not  from  the 
concentration  of  meaning,  but  from  the  want  of  it. 

And  now,  take  up  one  of  Turner's  distances,  it  matters 

*  Of  course  much  depends  upon  the  kind  of  detail  so  lost.  An  artist 
may  generalize  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  where  he  only  loses  lines  of  bark, 
and  do  us  a  kindness  ;  but  he  must  not  generalize  the  details  of  a 
champaign,  in  which  there  is  a  history  of  creation.  The  full  discussion 
of  the  subject  belongs  to  a  future  part  of  our  investigation. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


271 


not  which,  or  of  what  kind, — drawing  or  painting,  small  or 
great,  done  thirty  years  ago,  or  for  last  year's  Academy,  as 
§  11.  The  fui-         ^^^^  5        ^^^^  Mercury  and  Argus, 

orTumerrS  ^ook  if  every  fact  which  I  have  just  been 
tanc^.  pointing  out  in  nature  be  not  carried  out  in  it. 

Abundant,  beyond  the  power  of  the  eye  to  embrace  or  fol- 
low, vast  and  various,  beyond  the  power  of  the  mind  to  com- 
prehend, there  is  yet  not  one  atom  in  its  whole  extent  and 
mass  which  does  not  suggest  more  than  it  represents  ;  nor 
does  it  suggest  vaguely,  but  in  such  a  manner  as  to  prove 
that  the  conception  of  each  individual  inch  of  that  distance 
is  absolutely  clear  and  complete  in  the  master's  mind,  a  sep- 
arate picture  fully  worked  out  :  but  yet,  clearly  and  fully  as 
the  idea  is  formed,  just  so  much  of  it  is  given,  and  no  .more, 
as  nature  would  have  allowed  us  to  feel  or  see  ;  just  so  much 
as  would  enable  a  spectator  of  experience  and  knowledge  to 
understand  almost  every  minute  fragment  of  separate  detail, 
but  appears,  to  the  unpractised  and  careless  eye,  just  what 
a  distance  of  nature's  own  would  appear,  an  unintelligible 
mass.  Not  one  line  out  of  the  millions  there  is  without 
meaning,  yet  there  is  not  one  which  is  not  affected  and  dis- 
guised by  the  dazzle  and  indecision  of  distance.  No  form  is 
made  out,  and  yet  no  form  is  unknown. 

Perhaps  the  truth  of  this  system  of  drawing  is  better  to 
be  understood  by  observing  the  distant  character  of  rich 
architecture,  than  of  any  other  object.  Go  to  the  top  of 
§  12.  Farther  Highgate  Hill  on  a  clear  summer  morning  at 
Sfiruri"}  five  o'clock,  and  look  at  Westminster  Abbey, 
drawing.  You  will  receive  an  impression  of  a  building  en- 

riched with  multitudinous  vertical  lines.  Try  to  distinguish 
one  of  those  lines  all  the  way  down  from  the  one  next  to  it  : 
You  cannot.  Try  to  count  them  :  You  cannot.  Try  to 
make  out  the  beginning  or  end  of  any  one  of  them  :  You 
cannot.  Look  at  it  generally,  and  it  is  all  symmetry  and 
arrangement.  Look  at  it  in  its  parts,  and  it  is  all  inextri- 
cable confusion.  Am  not  I,  at  this  moment,  describing  a 
piece  of  Turner's  drawing,  with  the  same  words  by  which  I 
describe  nature  ?    And  what  would  one  of  the  old  masters 


272 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


have  done  with  such  a  building  as  this  in  his  distance  ? 
Either  he  would  only  have  given  the  shadows  of  the  but- 
tresses, and  the  light  and  dark  sides  of  the  two  towers,  and 
two  dots  for  the  windows  ;  or  if  more  ignorant  and  more 
ambitious,  he  had  attempted  to  render  some  of  the  detai^it 
would  have  been  done  by  distinct  lines, — would  have  been 
broad  caricature  of  the  delicate  building,  felt  at  once  to  be 
false,  ridiculous,  and  offensive.  His  most  successful  effort 
would  only  have  given  us,  through  his  carefully  toned  atmos- 
phere, the  effect  of  a  colossal  parish  church,  without  one  line 
of  curving  on  its  economic  sides.  Turner,  and  Turner  only, 
would  follow  and  render  on  the  canvas  that  mystery  of  de- 
cided line, — that  distinct,  sharp,  visible,  but  unintelligible 
and  inextricable  richness,  which,  examined  part  by  part,  is 
to  the  eye  nothing  but  confusion  and  defeat,  which,  taken 
as  a  whole,  is  all  unity,  symmetry,  and  truth.* 

Nor  is  this  mode  of  representation  true  only  with  respect 
to  distances.    Every  object,  however  near  the  eye,  has  some- 
thing about  it  which  you  cannot  see,  and  which  brings  the 
mystery  of  distance  even  into  every  part  and  por- 

§13.  Innearob-  /    i     ,  ^  4. 

jects  as  well  as  tion  OI  what  we  suppose  ourselves  to  see  most 
distances.  distinctly.    Stand  in  the  Piazza  di  St.  Marco  at 

Venice,  as  close  to  the  church  as  you  can,  without  losing  sight 
of  the  top  of  it.  Look  at  the  capitals  of  the  columns  on  the 
second  story.  You  see  that  they  are  exquisitely  rich,  carved 
all  over.  Tell  me  their  patterns  :  You  cannot.  Tell  me  the 
direction  of  a  single  line  in  them  :  You  cannot.  Yet  you  see 
a  multitude  of  lines,  and  you  have  so  much  feeling  of  a  cer- 
^  tain  tendency  and  arrang^ement  in  those  lines, 

§  14.  Va  c  a  n  0  y  »^     ^  ^  ^  / 

and  falsehood  of  that  vou  are  quite  sure  the  capitals  are  beauti- 

Canaletto.  /.  1  -,     1  t  n    -../i  0  i 

ful,  and  that  they  are  all  different  from  each 
other.  But  I  defy  you  to  make  out  one  single  line  in  any 
one  of  them.    Now  go  to  Canaletto's  painting  of  this  church, 

*  Vide,  for  iUustration,  Fontainebleau,  in  the  Illustrations  to  Scott ; 
Vignette  at  opening  of  Human  Life,  in  Rogers's  Poems  ;  Venice,  in  the 
Italy  ;  Chateau  de  Blois ;  the  Rouen,  and  Pont  Neuf,  Paris,  in  the  Riv- 
ers of  France.  The  distances  of  all  the  Academy  pictures  of  Venice, 
especially  the  Shylock,  are  most  instructive. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


273 


in  the  Palazzo  Manfriiii,  taken  from  the  very  spot  on  which 
you  stood.  How  much  has  he  represented  of  all  this  ?  A 
black  dot  under  each  capital  for  the  shadow,  and  a  yellow  one 
above  it  for  the  light.  There  is  not  a  vestige  nor  indication 
of  carving  or  decoration  of  any  sort  or  kind. 

■  Very  different  from  this,  but  erring  on  the  other  side,  is 
the  ordinary  drawing  of  the  architect,  who  gives  the  principal 
lines  of  the  design  with  delicate  clearness  and  precision,  but 
with  no  uncertainty  or  mystery  about  them  ;  which  mystery 
being  removed,  all  space  and  size  are  destroyed  with  it,  and 
we  have  a  drawing  of  a  model,  not  of  a  building.  But  in  the 
capital  lying  on  the  foreground  in  Turner's  Daphne  hunting 
with  Leucippus,  we  have-  the  perfect  truth.  Not  one  jag  of 
the  acanthus  leaves  is  absolutely  visible,  the  lines  are  all  dis- 
order, but  you  feel  in  an  instant  that  all  are  there.  And  so 
it  will  invariably  be  found  through  every  portion  of  detail  in 
his  late  and  most  perfect  works. 

But  if  there  be  this  mystery  and  inexhaustible  finish  merely 
in  the  more  delicate  instances  of  architectural  decoration,  how 
much  more  in  the  ceaseless  and  incomparable  decoration  of 
§  15.  still  greater  nature.  The  detail  of  a  single  weedy  bank 
LtTiantcJpe  ^^ughs  the  carviug  of  ages  to  scorn.  Every  leaf 
foregrounds.  stalk  has  a  design  and  tracery  upon  it, — 

every  knot  of  grass  an  intricacy  of  shade  which  the  labor  of 
years  could  never  imitate,  and  which,  if  such  labor  could  fol- 
low it  out  even  to  the  last  fibres  of  the  leaflets,  would  yet  be 
falsely  represented,  for,  as  in  all  other  cases  brought  forward, 
it  is  not  clearly  seen,  but  confusedly  and  mysteriously.  That 
which  is  nearness  for  the  bank,  is  distance  for  its  details  ; 
and  however  near  it  may  be,  the  greater  part  of  those  details 
are  still  a  beautiful  incomprehensibility.* 

*  It  is  to  be  remembered,  however,  that  these  truths  present  them- 
selves in  all  probability  under  very  different  phases  to  individuals  of 
different  powers  of  vision.  Many  artists  who  appear  to  generalize  rudely 
or  rashly  are  perhaps  faithfully  endeavoring  to  render  the  appearance 
which  nature  bears  to  sight  of  limited  range.  Others  may  be  lead  by 
their  singular  keenness  of  sight  into  inexpedient  detail.  Works  which 
are  painted  for  effect  at  a  certain  distance  must  be  always  seen  at  dis- 
Vol.  L— 18 


274 


OF  TBUTE  OF  SPACE. 


Hence,  throughout  the  picture,  the  expression  of  space 
and  size  is  dependent  upon  obscurity,  united  with,  or  rather 

advantage  by  those  whose  sighfc  is  of  different  range  from  the  painter's. 
Another  circumstance  to  which  I  ought  above  to  have  alluded  is  the  scale 
of  the  picture ;  for  there  are  different  degrees  of  generalization,  and  differ- 
ent necessities  of  symbolism,  belonging  to  every  scale :  the  stipple  of  tl"3 
miniature  painter  would  be  offensive  on  features  of  the  life  size,  and  the 
leaves  which  Tintoret  may  articulate  on  a  canvas  of  sixty  feet  by  twenty- 
five,  must  be  generalized  by  Turner  on  one  of  four  by  three.  Another 
circumstance  of  some  importance  is  the  assumed  distance  of  the  fore- 
ground ;  many  landscape  painters  seem  to  think  their  nearest  foreground 
is  always  equally  near,  whereas  its  distance  from  the  spectator  varies 
not  a  little,  being  always  at  least  its  own  calculable  breadth  from  side 
to  side  as  estimated  by  figures  or  any  other  object  of  known  size  at  the 
nearest  part  of  it.  With  Claude  almost  always  ;  with  Turner  often,  as 
in  the  Daphne  aod  Leucippus,  this  breadth  is  forty  or  fifty  yards ;  and 
as  the  nearest  foreground  object  must  then  be  at  least  that  distance  re- 
moved, and  may  be  much  more,  it  is  evident  that  no  completion  of  close 
detail  is  in  such  cases  allowable,  (see  here  another  proof  of  Claude's  er- 
roneous practice  ;)  with  Titian  and  Tintoret,  on  the  contrary,  the  fore- 
ground is  rarely  more  than  five  or  six  yards  broad,  and  its  objects  there- 
fore being  only  five  or  six  yards  distant  are  entirely  detailed. 

None  of  these  circumstances,  however,  in  any  wise  affect  the  great 
principle,  the  confusion  of  detail  taking  place  sooner  or  later  in  all  cases. 
I  ought  to  have  noted,  however,  that  many  of  the  pictures  of  Turner  in 
which  the  confused  drawing  has  been  least  understood,  have  been  lumi- 
nous twilights  ;  and  that  the  uncertainty  of  twilight  is  therefore  added 
to  that  of  general  distance.  In  the  evenings  of  the  south  it  not  unfre- 
quently  happens  that  objects  touched  with  the  reflected  light  of  the 
western  sky,  continue  even  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour  after  sunset, 
glowing,  ruddy,  and  intense  in  color,  and  almost  as  bright  as  if  they 
were  still  beneath  actual  sunshine,  even  till  the  moon  begius  to  cast  a 
shadow :  but  in  spite  of  this  brilliancy  of  color  all  the  details  become 
ghostly  and  ill-defined.  This  is  a  favorite  moment  of  Turner's,  and  he 
invariably  characterizes  it,  not  by  gloom,  but  by  uncertainty  of  detail. 
I  have  never  seen  the  effect  of  clear  twilight  thoroughly  rendered  by 
art ;  that  effect  in  which  all  details  are  lost,  while  intense  clearness  and 
light  are  still  felt  in  the  atmosphere,  in  which  nothing  is  distinctly  seen, 
and  yet  it  is  not  darkness,  far  less  mist,  that  is  the  cause  of  conceal- 
ment. Turner's  efforts  at  rendering  this  effect  (as  the  Wilderness  of 
Engedi,  Assos,  Chateau  de  Blois,  Caer-laverock,  and  others  innumer- 
able,) have  always  some  slight  appearance  of  mistiness,  owing  to  the 
indistinctness  of  details ;  but  it  remains  to  be  shown  that  any  closer  ap- 
proximation to  the  effect  is  possible. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE, 


275 


resultant  from,  exceeding  fulness.  We  destroy  both  space 
and  size,  either  by  the  vacancy,  which  affords  us  no  measure 
of  space,  or  by  the  distinctness,  which  gives  us  a  false  one. 

16  s  c  and  "^^^  distance  of  Poussin,  having  no  indication 
size  are  destroyed  of  trccs,  uor  of  mcadows,  nor  of  character  of  any 

alike  by  distinct-    ,  .     t  ^      n  p,         •  i         /v  ^  n 

ness  and  by  va-  Kind,  may  be  nity  miles  oii,  or  may  be  hve  ;  we 
^^°^^*  cannot  tell — we  have  no  measure,  and  in  conse- 

quence, no  vivid  impression.  But  a  middle  distance  of  Hob- 
bima's  involves  a  contradiction  in  terms  ;  it  states  a  distance 
by  perspective,  which  it  contradicts  by  distinctness  of  detail. 

A  single  dusty  roll  of  Turner's  brush  is  more  truly  expres- 
sive of  the  infinity  of  foliage,  than  the  niggling  of  Hobbima 
could  have  rendered  his  canvas,  if  he  had  worked  on  it  till 
§17.  Swift execu-  doomsday.  What  Sir  J.  Reynolds  says  of  the 
perfection  ^of'^dl-  misplaced  labor  of  his  Roman  acquaintance  on 
separate  leaves  of  foliage,  and  the  certainty  he 
expresses  that  a  man  who  attended  to  general  character 
would  in  five  minutes  produce  a  mare  faithful  representation 
of  a  tree,  than  the  unfortunate  mechanist  in  as  many  years, 
is  thus  perfectly  true  and  well  founded  ;  but  this  is  not  be- 
cause details  are  undesirable,  but  because  they  are  best  given 
§18  Finish  is  far  swift  execution,  and  because,  individually, 
more  necessary  thcv  cauuot  be  sriven  at  all.    But  it  should  be 

m  landscape  ^  i    n   i      i  ^  ^ 

than  in  histori-  observed  (though  we  shall  be  better  able  to  in- 
caisub3ects.  ^.^^  upon  this  point  in  future)  that  much  of  harm 
and  error  has  arisen  from  the  supposition  and  assertions  of 
swift  and  brilliant  historical  painters,  that  the  same  princi- 
ples of  execution  are  entirely  applicable  to  landscape,  which 
are  right  for  the  figure.  The  artist  who  falls  into  extreme 
detail  in  drawing  the  human  form,  is  apt  to  become  disgust- 
ing rather  than  pleasing.  It  is  more  agreeable  that  the 
general  outline  and  soft  hues  of  flesh  should  alone  be  given, 
than  its  hairs,  and  veins,  and  lines  of  intersection.  And  even 
the  most  rapid  and  generalizing  expression  of  the  human  body, 
if  directed  by  perfect  knowledge,  and  rigidly  faithful  in  draw- 
ing, will  commonly  omit  very  little  of  what  is  agreeable  or 
impressive.  But  the  exclusively  generalizing  landscape 
painter  omits  the  whole  of  what  is  valuable  in  his  subject, — - 


276 


OF  TRUTH  OF  SPACE. 


omits  thoughts,  designs,  and  beauties  by  the  million,  every- 
thing, indeed,  which  can  furnish  him  with  variety  or  expres- 
sion. A  distance  in  Lincolnshire,  or  in  Lombardy,  might 
both  be  generalized  into  such  blue  and  yellow  stripes  as  we 
see  in  Poussin  ;  but  whatever  there  is  of  beauty  or  character 
in  either,  depends  altogether  on  our  understanding  the  de- 
tails, and  feeling  the  difference  between  the  morasses  and 
ditches  of  the  one,  and  the  rolling  sea  of  mulberry  trees  of 
the  other.  And  so  in  every  part  of  the  subject.  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  asserting  that  it  is  impossible  to  go  too  fine,  or 
think  too  much  about  details  in  landscape,  so  that  they  be 
rightly  arranged  and  rightly  massed  ;  but  that  it  is  equally 
impossible  to  render  anything  like  the  fulness  or  the  space  of 
nature,  except  by  that  mystery  and  obscurity  of  execution 
which  she  herself  uses,  and  in  which  Turner  only  has  fol- 
lowed her. 

We  have  now  rapidly  glanced  at  such  general  truths  of 
nature  as  can  be  investigated  without  much  knowledge  of 
what  is  beautiful.    Questions  of  arrangement,  massing,  and 

generalization,  I  prefer  leaving  untouched,  until 
tion  ofthe^sec-^   we  know  something  about  details,  and  something 

about  what  is  beautiful.  All  that  is  desirable, 
even  in  these  mere  technical  and  artificial  points,  is  based 
upon  truths  and  habits  of  nature  ;  but  we  cannot  understand 
those  truths  until  we  are  acquainted  with  the  specific  forms 
and  minor  details  which  they  affect,  or  out  of  which  they 
arise,  I  shall,  therefore,  proceed  to  examine  the  invaluable 
and  essential  truths  of  specific  character  and  form — briefly 
and  imperfectly,  indeed,  as  needs  must  be,  but  yet  at  length 
sufficient  to  enable  the  reader  to  pursue,  if  he  will,  the  sub- 
ject for  himself. 


BIEOTZOlsr  IIX- 
OF  TRUTH  OF  SKIES. 


CHAPTER  1. 

OF    THE    OPEN^  SKY. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  how  little  in  general  people  know 
about  the  sky.    It  is  the  part  of  creation  in  which  nature  has 
done  more  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  man,  more  for  the  sole  and 
evident  purpose  of  talkinsr  to  him  and  teachino- 

§  1.  The  peculiar  ,    ^   .  ?  ,  t   •  • 

adaptation  of  the  him,  than  in  any  other  of  her  works,  and  it  is 

sky  to  the  pleas-    .  ,  •  i  •  i  i  '  i  i 

ing  and  teaching  ]ust  the  part  in  which  we  Icast  attend  to  her. 
of  man.  There  are  not  many  of  her  other  works  in  which 

some  more  material  or  essential  purpose  than  the  mere  pleas- 
ing of  man  is  not  answered  by  every  part  of  their  organiza- 
tion ;  but  every  essential  purpose  of  the  sky  might,  so  far  as 
we  know,  be  answered,  if  once  in  three  days,  or  thereabouts, 
a  great  ugly  black  rain  cloud  were  brought  up  over  the  blue, 
and  everything  well  watered,  and  so  all  left  blue  again  till 
next  time,  with  perhaps  a  film  of  morning  and  evening  mist 
for  dew.  And  instead  of  this,  there  is  not  a  moment  of  any 
day  of  our  lives,  when  nature  is  not  producing  scene  after 
scene,  picture  after  picture,  glory  after  glory,  and  working 
still  upon  such  exquisite  and  constant  principles  of  the  most 
perfect  beauty,  that  it  is  quite  certain  it  is  all  done  for  us, 
and  intended  for  our  perpetual  pleasure.  And  every  man, 
wherever  placed,  however  far  from  other  sources  of  interest 
or  of  beauty,  has  this  doing  for  him  constantly.  The  noblest 
scenes  of  the  earth  can  be  seen  and  known  but  by  few  ;  it  is 
not  intended  that  man  should  live  always  in  the  midst  of 


278 


OF.  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


them,  he  injures  them  by  his  presence,  he  ceases  to  feel  them 
if  he  be  always  with  them  ;  but  the  sky  is  for  all  ;  bright  as 
it  is,  it  is  not  too  bright,  nor  good,  for  human  nature's  daily 
food  ; "  it  is  fitted  in  all  its  functions  for  the  perpetual  com- 
fort and  exalting  of  the  heart,  for  the  soothing  it  and  purify, 
ing  it  from  its  dross  and  dust.  Sometimes  gentle,  sometimes 
capricious,  sometimes  awful,  never  the  same  for  two  moments 
together  ;  almost  human  in  its  passions,  almost  spiritual  in 
its  tenderness,  almost  divine  in  its  infinity,  its  appeal  to  what 
is  immortal  in  us,  is  as  distinct,  as  its  ministry  of  chastisement 
§  2.  The  careless-  o^*  of  blessing  to  what  is  mortal  is  essential. 
ksTerso^^sI^i''^  And  yet  we  never  attend  to  it,  we  never  make 
received.  ^  subject  of  thought,  but  as  it  has  to  do  with 

our  animal  sensations  ;  we  look  upon  all  by  which  it  speaks 
to  us  more  clearly  than  to  brutes,  upon  all  which  bears  wit- 
ness to  the  intention  of  the  Supreme,  that  we  are  to  receive 
more  from  the  covering  vault  than  the  light  and  the  dew 
which  we  share  with  the  weed  and  the  worm,  only  as  a  suc- 
cession of  meaningless  and  monotonous  accident,  too  common 
and  too  vain  to  be  worthy  of  a  moment  of  watchfulness,  or 
a  glance  of  admiration.  If  in  our  moments  of  utter  idleness 
and  insipidity,  we  turn  to  the  sky  as  a  last  resource,  which  of 
its  phenomena  do  we  speak  of  ?  One  says  it  has  been  wet, 
and  another  it  has  been  windy,  and  another  it  has  been  warm. 
Who,  among  the  whole  chattering  crowd,  can  tell  me  of  the 
forms  and  the  precipices  of  the  chain  of  tall  white  mountains 
that  girded  the  horizon  at  noon  yesterday  ?  Who  saw  the 
narrow  sunbeam  that  came  out  of  the  south,  and  smote  upon 
their  summits  until  they  melted  and  mouldered  away  in  a 
dust  of  blue  rain  ?  Who  saw  the  dance  of  the  dead  clouds 
when  the  sunlight  left  them  last  night,  and  the  west  wind 
blew  them  before  it  like  withered  leaves  ?  All  has  passed, 
unregretted  as  unseen  ;  or  if  the  apathy  be  ever  shaken  off, 
even  for  an  instant,  it  is  only  by  what  is  gross,  or  what  is  ex- 
§3.  The  most  88-  traordinary  ;  and  yet  it  is  not  in  the  broad  and 
leTsonl  lV\hI  fi^^ce  manifestations  of  the  elemental  energies, 
gentlest.  ^ot  in  the  clash  of  the  hail,  nor  the  drift  of  the 

whirlwind,  that  the  highest  characters  of  the  sublime  are  de- 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY, 


279 


veloped.  God  is  not  in  the  earthquake,  nor  in  the  fire,  but 
in  the  still  small  voice.  They  are  but  the  blunt  and  the  low 
faculties  of  our  nature,  which  can  only  be  addressed  through 
lampblack  and  lightning.  It  is  in  quiet  and  subdued  pas- 
sages of  unobtrusive  majesty,  the  deep,  and  the  calm,  and  the 
perpetual, — that  which  must  be  sought  ere  it  is  seen,  and 
loved  ere  it  is  understood, — things  which  the  angels  work  out 
for  us  daily,  and  yet  vary  eternally,  which  are  never  wanting, 
and  never  repeated,  which  are  to  be  found  always  yet  each 
found  but  once  ;  it  is  through  these  that  the  lesson  of  devo- 
tion is  chiefly  taught,  and  the  blessing  of  beauty  given. 
These  are  what  the  artist  of  highest  aim  must  study  ;  it  is 
§4.  Many  of  our  these,  by  the  combination  of  which  his  ideal  is 
together  conveji-  Created  ;  thesc,  of  which  so  little  notice  is 

tionai.  ordinarily  taken  by  common  observers,  that  I 

fully  believe,  little  as  people  in  general  are  concerned  with 
art,  more  of  their  ideas  of  sky  are  derived  from  pictures  than 
from  reality,  and  that  if  we  could  examine  the  conception 
formed  in  the  minds  of  most  educated  persons  when  we  talk 
of  clouds,  it  would  frequently  be  found  composed  of  frag- 
ments of  blue  and  white  reminiscences  of  the  old  masters. 

I  shall  enter  upon  the  examination  of  what  is  true  in  sky 
at  greater  length,  because  it  is  the  only  part  of  a  picture  of 
which  all,  if  they  will,  may  be  competent  judges.  What  I 
may  have  to  assert  respecting  the  rocks  of  Salvator,  or  the 
boughs  of  Claude,  I  can  scarcely  prove,  except  to  those 
whom  I  can  immure  for  a  month  or  two  in  the  fastnesses  of 
the  Apennines,  or  guide  in  their  summer  walks  again  and 
again  through  the  ravines  of  Sorrento.  But  what  I  say  of 
the  sky  can  be  brought  to  an  immediate  test  by  all,  and  I 
write  the  more  decisively,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  be  so. 

Let  us  begin  then  with  the  simple  open  blue  of  the  sky. 
This  is  of  course  the  color  of  the  pure  atmospheric  air,  not 
the  aqueous  vapor^  but  the  pure  azote  and  oxygen,  and  it  is 
„  ^     ,        ,  the  total  color  of  the  whole  mass  of  that  air 

§  5.  Nature  and 

essential  qualities  between  US  and  the  void  of  space.    It  is  modi- 

of  the  open  blue.  .  x-x  i? 

lied  by  the  varying  quantity  or  aqueous  vapor 
suspended  in  it,  whose  color,  in  its  most  imperfect,  and 


280 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


therefore  most  visible,  state  of  solution,  is  pure  white,  (as  in 
steam,)  which  receives,  like  any  other  white,  the  warm  hues 
of  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and,  according  to  its  quantity  and 
imperfect  solution,  makes  the  sky  paler,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  or  less  gray,  by  mixing  warm  tones  with  its  blue. 
This  gray  aqueous  vapor,  when  very  decided,  becomes  mist, 
and  when  local,  cloud.  Hence  the  sky  is  to  be  considered  as 
a  transparent  blue  liquid,  in  which,  at  various  elevations, 
clouds  are  suspended,  those  clouds  being  themselves  only 
particular  visible  spaces  of  a  substance  with  which  the  whole 
mass  of  this  liquid  is  more  or  less  impregnated.  Now,  we 
§  6  Its  connec-  know  this  perfectly  well,  and  yet  we  so  far 
tion  with  clouds,  forget  it  in  practice,  that  we  little  notice  the 
constant  connection  kept  up  by  nature  between  her  blue 
and  her  clouds,  and  we  are  not  offended  by  the  constant 
habit  of  the  old  masters,  of  considering  the  blue  sky  as 
totally  distinct  in  its  nature,  and  far  separated  from  the 
vapors  which  float  in  it.  With  them,  cloud  is  cloud,  and 
blue  is  blue,  and  no  kind  of  connection  between  them  is  ever 
hinted  at.  The  sky  is  thought  of  as  a  clear,  high  material 
dome,  the  clouds  as  separate  bodies,  suspended  beneath  it, 
and  in  consequence,  however  delicate  and  exquisitely  re- 
§7  Its  exceed-  i^^ved  in  tone  their  skies  may  be,  you  always 
ing  depth.  \odk  at  them,  not  through  them.  Now,  if  there 
be  one  characteristic  of  the  sky  more  valuable  or  necessary 
to  be  rendered  than  another,  it  is  that  which  Wordsworth 
has  given  in  the  second  book  of  the  Excursion  : — 

The  chasm  of  sky  above  my  head 
Is  Heaven's  profoundest  azure.    No  domain 
For  fickle,  short-lived  clouds,  to  occupy, 
Or  to  pass  through  ;— but  rather  an  ahyss 
In  w^hich  the  everlasting  stars  abide, 

And  whose  soft  gloom,  and  boundless  depth,  might  tempt 
The  curious  eye  to  look  for  them  by  day.*' 

And,  in  his  American  Notes,  I  remember  Dickens  notices 
the  same  truth,  describing  himself  as  lying  drowsily  on  the 
barge  deck,  looking  not  at,  but  through  the  sky.    And  if 


OF  THE  OPEN'  SKY. 


281 


you  look  intensely  at  the  pure  blue  of  a  serene  sky,  you  will 
see  that  there  is  a  variety  and  fulness  in  its  very  repose.  It 
is  not  flat  dead  color,  but  a  deep,  quivering,  transparent 
body  of  penetrable  air,  in  which  you  trace  or  imagine  short, 
falling  spots  of  deceiving  light,  and  dim  shades,  faint,  veiled 
vestiges  of  dark  vapor  ;  and  it  is  this  trembling  transparency 
§8  These quaii-  which  our  great  modern  master  has  especially 
ties  are  especially  g^jj^g^j  at  and  Hvcu.    His  bluc  is  ncvcr  laid 

given  Dy  modern  ^  ... 

masters.  qji  in  smooth  coats,  but  in  breaking,  mingling, 

melting  hues,  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  which,  cut  off  from  all 
the  rest  of  the  picture,  is  still  spacious^  still  infinite  and  im- 
measurable in  depth.  It  is  a  painting  of  the  air,  something 
into  which  you  can  see,  through  the  parts  which  are  near 
you  into  those  which  are  far  off  ;  something  which  has  no 
surface,  and  through  which  we  can  plunge  far  and  farther, 
and  without  stay  or  end,  into  the  profundity  of  space  ; — 
whereas,  with  all  the  old  landscape  painters,  except  Claude, 
you  may  indeed  go  a  long  way  before  you  come  to  the  sky, 
but  you  will  strike  hard  against  it  at  last.  A  perfectly  gen- 
§  9  And  by  ^^^^  ^^^^  Untouched  sky  of  Claude  is  indeed 
Claude.  most  perfect,  and  beyond  praise,  in  all  qualities 

of  air  ;  though  even  with  him,  I  often  feel  rather  that  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  air  between  me  and  the  firmament, 
than  that  the  firmament  itself  is  only  air.  I  do  not  mean, 
however,  to  say  a  word  against  such  skies  as  that  of  the 
Enchanted  Castle,  or  that  marked  30  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery, or  one  or  two  which  I  remember  at  Rome  ;  but  how 
little  and  by  how  few  these  fine  passages  of  Claude  are  ap- 
preciated, is  sufficiently  proved  by  the  sufferance  of  such 
villainous  and  unpalliated  copies  as  we  meet  with  all  over 
Europe,  like  the  Marriage  of  Isaac,  in  our  own  Gallery,  to 
remain  under  his  name*.  In  fact,  I  do  not  remember  above 
ten  pictures  of  Claude's,  in  which  the  skies,  whether  re- 
painted or  altogether  copies,  or  perhaps  from  Claude's  hand, 
but  carelessly  laid  in,  like  that  marked  241,  Dulwich  Gal- 
lery, were  not  fully  as. Jeelingless  and  false  as  those  of  other 
masters  ;  while,  with^-'^jlhe  Poussins,  there  are  no  favorable 
exceptions.    Their  skies  are  systematically  wrong  ;  take, 


282 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


for  instance,  the  sky  of  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac.  It  is  here 
high  noon,  as  is  shown  by  the  shadow  of  the  figures  ;  and 
what  sort  of  color  is  the  sky  at  the  top  of  the  picture  ?  Is 
§  10.  Total  ab-  P^^-l^  S^^Y  with  heat,  full  of  sunshine,  and 
Sfuiin^^^PhyS  unfathomable  in  depth?  On  the  contrary,  it 
generlureiti^^^  ^  pitch  of  darkncss  which,  except  on  the 

of  open  sky.  Mont  Blanc  or  Chimborazo,  is  as  purely  impos- 
sible as  color  can  be.  He  might  as  well  have  painted  it  coal 
black  ;  and  it  is  laid  on  with  a  dead  coat  of  flat  paint,  hav- 
ing no  one  quality  or  resemblance  of  sky  about  it.'  It  can- 
not have  altered,  because  the  land  horizon  is  as  delicate  and 
tender  in  tone  as  possible,  and  is  evidently  unchanged  ;  and. 
to  complete  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing,  this  color  holds 
its  own,  without  graduation  or  alteration,  to  within  three  or 
four  degrees  of  the  horizon,  where  it  suddenly  becomes  bold 
and  unmixed  yellow.  Now  the  horizon  at  noon  may  be  yel- 
low when  the  whole  sky  is  covered  with  dark  clouds,  and 
only  one  open  streak  of  light  left  in  the  distance  from  which 
the  whole  light  proceeds  ;  but  with  a  clear,  open  sky,  and 
opposite  the  sun,  at  noon,  such  a  yellow  horizon  as  this  is 
physically  impossible.  Even  supposing  that  the  upper  part 
of  the  sky  were  pale  and  warm,  and  that  the  transition  from 
the  one  hue  to  the  other  w^ere  effected  imperceptibly  and 
gradually,  as  is  invariably  the  case  in  reality,  instead  of  taking 
place  within  a  space  of  two  or  three  degrees  ; — even  then, 
this  gold  yellow  would  be  altogether  absurd  ;  but  as  it  is,  we 
have  in  this  sky  (and  it  is  a  fine  picture — one  of  the  best  of 
Gaspar's  that  I  know,)  a  notable  example  of  the  truth  of  the 
old  masters — two  impossible  colors  impossibly  united  !  Find 
such  a  color  in  Turner's  noonday  zenith  as  the  blue  at  the 
top,  or  such  a  color  at  a  noonday  horizon  as  the  yellow  at 
the  bottom,  or  such  a  connection  of  ^ny  colors  whatsoever 
as  that  in  the  centre,  and  then  you  may  talk  about  his  being 
false  to  nature  if  you  will.    Nor  is  this  a  solitary  instance  ; 

it  is  Gaspar  Poussin's  favorite  and  characteris- 
Cuyp  in'gradua-  tic  effect.  I  remember  twenty  such,  most  of 
tion of  color.  ^hcm  worsc  than  this,  in^the  downright  surface 
and  opacity  of  blue.    Again,  look  at  ^he  large  Cuyp  in  the 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


283 


Dulwich  Gallery,  which  Mr.  Hazlitt  considers  the  "finest  in 
the  world,"  and  of  which  he  very  complimentarily  says,  "  TFio 
tender  green  of  the  valleys,  the  gleaming  lake,  the  purple 
light  of  the  hills,  have  an  effect  like  the  down  on  an  unripe 
nectarine  !  "  I  ought  to  have  apologized  before  now,  for  not 
having  studied  sufficiently  in  Covent  Garden  to  be  provided 
with  terms  of  correct  and  classical  criticism.  One  of  my 
friends  begged  me  to  observe,  the  other  day,  that  Claude 
was  "  pulpy  ;  "  another  added  the  yet  more  gratifying  infor- 
mation that  he  was  "  juicy  ;  "  and  it  is  now  happily  discovered 
that  Cuyp  is  "  downy."  Now  I  dare  say  that  the  sky  of  this 
first-rate  Cuyp  is  very  like  an  unripe  nectarine  :  all  that  I 
have  to  say  about  it  is,  that  it  is  exceedingly  unlike  a  sky. 
The  blue  remains  unchanged  and  ungraduated  over  three- 
fourths  of  it,  down  to  the  horizon  ;  w^hile  the  sun^  in  the 
left-hand  corner,  is  surrounded  with  a  halo,  first  of  yellow, 
and  then  of  crude  pink,  both  being  separated  from  each 
other,  and  the  last  from  the  blue,  as  sharply  as  the  belts  of 
a  rainbow,  and  both  together  not  ascending  ten  degrees  in 
the  sky.  Now  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  any  man  call- 
ing himself  a  painter  could  impose  such  a  thing  on  the  pub- 
lic, and  still  more  how  the  public  can  receive  it,  as  a  repre- 
sentation of  that  sunset  purple  which  invariably  extends  its 
influence  to  the  zenith,  so  that  there  is  no  pure  blue  any- 
where, but  a  purple  increasing  in  purity  gradually  down  to 
its  point  of  greatest  intensity,  (about  forty-five  degrees  from 
the  horizon,)  and  then  melting  imperceptibly  into  the  gold, 
the  three  colors  extending  their  influence  over  the  whole 
sky  ;  so  that  throughout  the  whole  sweep  of  the  heaven, 
there  is  no  one  spot  where  the  color  is  not  in  an  equal  state 
of  transition — passing  from  gold  into  orange,  from  that  into 
rose,  from  that  into  purple,  from  that  into  blue,  with  abso- 
lute equality  of  change,  so  that  in  no  place  can  it  be  said, 
"  here  it  changes,"  and  in  no  place,  "  here  it  is  unchanging." 
This  is  invariably  the  case.  There  is  no  such  thing — there 
never  was,  and  never  will  be  such  a  thing,  while  God's 
heaven  remains  as  it  is  made — as  a  serene,  sunset  sky,  with 
its  purple  and  rose  in  belts  about  the  sun. 


284 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


Such  bold,  broad  examples  of  ignorance  as  these  would 
soon  set  aside  ail  the  claims  of  the  professed  landscape 
painters  to  truth,  with  whatever  delicacy  of  color  or  manipu- 
§  12.  The  exceed-  lation  they  may  be  disguised.  But  there  are 
skfeJSf^the  eariy  some  skics,  of  the  Dutch  school,  in  which  clear- 
DutX  school  ^^ss  and  coolness  have  been  aimed  at,  instead 
arolnmttSbie  depth  ;  and  some  introduced  merely  as  back- 
in  modern  times,  grounds  to  the  historical  subjects  of  the  older 
Italians,  which  there  is  no  matching  in  modern  times  ;  one 
would  think  angels  had  painted  them,  for  all  is  now  clay  and 
oil  in  comparison.  It  seems  as  if  we  had  totally  lost  the  art, 
for  surely  otherwise,  however  little  our  painters  might  aim  at 
it  or  feel  it,  they  would  touch  the  chord  sometimes  by  acci- 
dent ;  but  they  never  do,  and  the  mechanical  incapacity  is 
still  more  strongly  evidenced  by  the  muddy  struggles  of  the 
unhappy  Germans,  who  have  the  feeling,  partially  strained, 
artificial,  and  diseased,  indeed,  but  still  genuine  enough  to 
bring  out  the  tone,  if  they  had  the  mechanical  means  and 
technical  knowledge.  But,  however  they  were  obtained,  the 
clear  tones  of  this  kind  of  the  older  Italians  are  glorious  and 
enviable  in  the  highest  degree  ;  and  we  shall  show,  when  we 
come  to  speak  of  the  beautiful,  that  they  are  one  of  the  most 
just  grounds  of  the  fame  of  the  old  masters. 

But  there  is  a  series  of  phenomena  connected  with  the 
open  blue  of  the  sky,  which  we  must  take  especial  notice  of, 
§  13.  Phenomena  it  is  of  Constant  Occurrence  in  the  works  of 
bLmi!TLrna:  Turner  and  Claude,  the  effects,  namely,  of  visible 
ture  and  cause,  sunbeams.  It  wlll  be  necessary  for  us  thoroughly 
to  understand  the  circumstances  under  which  such  effects 
take  place. 

Aqueous  vapor  or  mist,  suspended  in  the  atmosphere,  be- 
comes visible  exactly  as  dust  does  in  the  air  of  a  room.  In 
the  shadows  you  not  only  cannot  see  the  dust  itself,  because 
unillumined,  but  you  can  see  other  objects  through  the  dust 
without  obscurity,  the  air  being  thus  actually  rendered  more 
transparent  by  a  deprivation  of  light.  Where  a  sunbeam 
enters,  every  particle  of  dust  becomes  visible,  and  a  palpable 
interruption  to  the  sight,  so  that  a  transverse  sunbeam  is  a 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


285 


real  obstacle  to  the  vision,  you  cannot  see  things  clearly 
through  it. 

In  the  same  way,  wherever  vapor  is  illuminated  by  trans- 
verse rays  there  it  becomes  visible  as  a  whiteness  more  or  less 
affecting  the  purity  of  the  blue,  and  destroying  it  exactly  in 
proportion  to  the  degree  of  illumination.  But  where  vapor 
is  in  shade,  it  has  very  little  effect  on  the  sky,  perhaps  mak- 
ing it  a  little  deeper  and  grayer  than  it  otherwise  would  be, 
but  not  itself>  unless  very  dense,  distinguishable  or  felt  as 
mist. 

The  appearance  of  mist  or  whiteness  in  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
is  thus  a  circumstance  which  more  or  less  accompanies  sun- 
shine, and  which,  supposing  the  quantity  of  vapor  constant, 
§  14  The3'  are  greatest  in  the  brightest  sunlight.  When 
only  illuminated  there  are  no  clouds  in  the  skv,  the  whiteness, 

mist,  and  cannot  .  p« 

appear  when  the  as  it  aiiects  the  wholc  sky  equally,  is  not  par- 
sky  is  free  from      •      i     i  •       i  i         -r>  ^  i  it 

vapor,  nor  when  ticularly  noticcabie.  i3ut  when  there  are  clouds 
clouds.  between  us  and  the  sun,  the  sun  being  low, 

those  clouds  cast  shadows  along  and  through  the  mass  of 
suspended  vapor.  Within  the  space  of  these  shadows,  the 
vapor,  as  above  stated,  becomes  transparent  and  invisible, 
and  the  sky  appears  of  a  pure  blue.  But  where  the  sun- 
beams strike,  the  vapor  becomes  visible  in  the  form  of  the 
beams,  occasioning  those  radiating  shafts  of  light  which  are 
one  of  the  most  valuable  and  constant  accompaniments  of  a 
low  sun.  The  denser  the  mist,  the  more  distinct  and  sharp- 
edged  will  these  rays  be  ;  when  the  air  is  very  clear,  they 
are  mere  vague,  flushing,  gradated  passages  of  light  ;  when 
it  is  very  thick,  they  are  keen-edged  and  decisive  in  a  high 
degree. 

We  see  then,  first,  that  a  quantity  of  mist'  dispersed 
through  the  whole  space  of  the  sky,  is  necessary  to  this 
phenomenon  ;  and  secondly,  that  what  we  usually  think  of 
as  beams  of  greater  brightness  than  the  rest  of  the  sky,  are 
in  reality  only  a  part  of  that  sky  in  its  natural  state  of  illu- 
mination, cut  off  and  rendered  brilliant  by  the  shadows  from 
the  clouds, — that  these  shadows  are  in  reality  the  source  of 
the  appearance  of  beams, — that,  therefore,  no  part  of  the 


286 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


sky  can  present  such  an  appearance,  except  when  there  are 
broken  clouds  between  it  and  the  sun  ;  and  lastly,  that  the 
shadows  cast  from  such  clouds  are  not  necessarily  gray  or 
dark,  but  very  nearly  of  the  natural  pure  blue  of  a  sky  des- 
titute of  vapor. 

Now,  as  it  has  been  proved  that  the  appearance  of  beams 
can  only  take  place  in  a  part  of  the  sky  which  has  clouds  be- 
tween it  and  the  sun,  it  is  evident  that  no  appearance  of 
§15.  Erroneous  bcams  cau  evcr  begin  from  the  orb  itself,  ex- 
repreSaUonof  ^^P^  whcu  there  is  a  cloud  or  solid  body  of  some 
bythe^oiT  mTs^  ^^^^  between  us  and  it ;  but  that  such  appear- 
ances  will  almost  invariably  begin  on  the  dark 
side  of  some  of  the  clouds  around  it,  the  orb  itself  remain- 
ing the  centre  of  a  broad  blaze  of  united  light.  Words- 
worth has  given  us  in  two  lines,  the  only  circumstances  under 
which  rays  can  ever  appear  to  have  origin  in  the  orb  itself: — 

"  But  rays  of  light, 
Now  suddenly  diverging  from  the  orb, 
Retired  behind  the  mountain  tops,  or  veiled 
By  the  dense  air,  shot  upwards." 

Excursion,  Book  IX. 

And  Turner  has  given  us  the  effect  magnificently  in  the 
Dartmouth  of  the  River  Scenery.  It  is  frequent  among  the 
old  masters,  and  constant  in  Claude  ;  though  the  latter,  from 
drawing  his  beams  too  fine,  represents  the  effect  upon  the 
dazzled  eye  rather  than  the  light  which  actually  exists,  and 
approximates  very  closely  to  the  ideal  which  we  see  in  the 
sign  of  the  Rising  Sun  ;  nay,  I  am  nearly  sure  that  I  re- 
member cases  in  which  he  has  given  us  the  diverging  beam, 
without  any  cloud  or  hill  interferino-  with  the 

§  16.     The  ray  ° 

which  appears  in  orb.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  somewhat  aimcult  to 
Bhouid^^not  %e  Say  how  far  it  is  allowable  to  represent  that  kind 
repi evented.  which  is  sccu  by  the  dazzled  eye.    It  is 

very  certain  that  V7e  never  look  towards  a  bright  sun  with- 
out seeing  glancing  rays  issue  from  it;  but  it  is  equally  cer- 
tain that  those  rays  are  no  more  real  existences  than  the  red 
and  blue  circles  which  we  see  after  having  been  so  dazzled, 
and  that  if  we  are  to  represent  the  rays  we  ought  also  to 


OF  THE  OPEN  SKY. 


287 


cover  our  sky  with  pink  and  blue  circles.  I  should  on  the 
whole  consider  it  utterly  false  in  principle  to  represent  the 
visionary  beam,  and  that  we  ought  only  to  show  that  which 
§  17.  The  prac-  ^^s  actual  existence.  Such  we  find  to  be  the 
mskeen^ercep-  constant  practice  of  Turner.  Even  where,  owing 
ScaL  phenom^  iutcrposcd  clouds,  he  has  beams  appearing  to 
ena  of  rays.  issuc  from  the  orb  itself,  they  are  broad  bursts  of 
light,  not  spiky  rays  ;  and  his  more  usual  practice  is  to  keep 
all  near  the  sun  in  one  simple  blaze  of  intense  light,  and 
from  the  first  clouds  to  throw  beams  to  the  zenith,  though  he 
often  does  not  permit  any  appearance  of  rays  until  close  to 
the  zenith  itself.  Open  at  the  80th  page  of  the  Illustrated 
edition  of  Rogers's  poems.  You  have  there  a  sky  blazing 
with  sunbeams  ;  but  they  all  begin  a  long  way  from  the  sun, 
and  they  are  accounted  for  by  a  mass  of  dense  clouds  sur- 
rounding the  orb  itself.  Turn  to  the  7th  page.  Behind  the 
old  oak,  where  the  sun  is  supposed  to  be,  you  have  only  a 
blaze  of  undistinguished  light  ;  but  up  on  the  left,  over  the 
edge  of  the  cloud,  on  its  dark  side,  the  sunbeam.  Turn  to 
page  192, — blazing  rays  again,  but  all  beginning  where  the 
clouds  do,  not  one  can  you  trace  to  the  sun  ;  and  observe  how 
carefully  the  long  shadow  on  the  mountain  is  accounted  for 
§18.  The  total  by  the  dim  dark  promontory  projecting  out  near 
ev"eof  Ruch  the  sun.  I  need  not  multiply  examples  ;  you 
perception  m the  ^^^jj        various  modifications  and  uses  of  these 

works;  of  the  old 

masters.  effccts  throughout  his  works.    But  you  will  not 

find  a  single  trace  of  them  in  the  old  masters.  They  give 
you  the  rays  issuing  from  behind  black  clouds,  and  because 
they  are  a  coarse  and  common  effect  which  could  not  pos- 
sibly escape  their  observation,  and  because  they  are  easily 
imitated.  They  give  you  the  spiky  shafts  issuing  from  the 
orb  itself,  because  these  are  partially  symbolical  of  light,  and 
assist  a  tardy  imagination,  as  two  or  three  rays  scratched 
round  the  sun  with  a  pen  would,  though  they  would  be  rays 
of  darkness  instead  of  light.*    But  of  the  most  beautiful 

*  I  have  left  this  passage  as  it  stood  originally,  because  it  is  right  as 
far  as  it  goes  ;  yet  it  speaks  with  too  little  respect  of  symbolisra,  which 
is  often  of  the  highest  use  in  religious  art,  and  in  some  measure  is  allow- 


288 


OF  THE  OPEN  SET. 


phenomenon  of  all,  the  appearance  of  the  delicate  ray  far  in 
the  sky,  threading  its  way  among  the  thin,  transparent 
clouds,  while  all  around  the  sun  is  unshadowed  fire,  there  is 
no  record  nor  example  whatsoever  in  their  works.  It  was  too 
delicate  and  spiritual  for  them  ;  probably  their  blunt  and  f eel- 
ingless  eyes  never  perceived  it  in  nature,  and  their  untaught 
imaginations  were  not  likely  to  originate  it  in  the  study. 

Little  is  to  be  said  of  the  skies  of  our  other  landscape  ar- 
tists. In  paintings,  they  are  commonly  toneless,  crude,  and 
wanting  in  depth  and  transparency  ;  but  in  drawings,  some 
§19  Truth  of  ^^^y  P^i'f^ct  and  delicate  examples  have  been 
the  skies  of  mod-  produced  bv  vaHous  members  of  the  old  water 

em  drawings.  ^       c^     -  i  i  i  •  i 

color  bociety,  and  one  or  two  others  ;  but  with 
respect  to  the  qualities  of  which  we  are  at  present  speaking, 
it  is  not  right  to  compare  drawings  with  paintings,  as  the 
wash  or  spunging,  or  other  artifices  peculiar  to  water  color, 
are  capable  of  producing  an  appearance  of  quality  which  it 
needs  much  higher  art  to  produce  in  oils. 

Taken  generally,  the  open  skies  of  the  moderns  are  inferior 
in  quality  to  picked  and  untouched  skies  of  the  greatest  of 
the  ancients,  but  far  superior  to  the  average  class  of  pictures 
§  20.  Eecapitu-  which  we  have  every  day  fathered  upon  their 
pMeT'of^he'^an^  reputation.  Nine  or  ten  skies  of  Claude  might 
Equality  ^Tnimit^  ^®  named  which  are  not  to  be  contended  with, 
able,  but  in  ren-       their  wav,  and  as  many  of  Cuyp.  Teniers 

dermg  or  various  «^  '  ^  'J  ^ 

truth,  chUdish.    has  givcu  some  very  wonderful  passages,  and 

able  in  all  art.  In  the  works  of  almost  all  the  greatest  masters  there 
are  portions  which  are  explanatory  rather  than  representative,  and  typi- 
cal rather  than  imitative  ;  nor  could  these  be  parted  with  but  at  infinite 
loss.  Note,  with  respect  to  the  present  question,  the  daring  black  sun- 
beams of  Titian,  in  his  woodcut  of  St.  Francis  receiving  the  stigmata, 
and  compare  here  Part  III.  Sect.  II.  Chap.  IV.  §  18  ;  Chap.  V.  §  13. 
And  though  I  believe  that  I  am  right  in  considering  all  such  symbolism 
as  out  of  place  in  pure  landscape,  and  ia  attributing  that  of  Claude  to 
ignorance  or  inability,  and  not  to  feeling,  yet  I  praise  Turner  not  so 
much  for  his  absolute  refusal  to  represent  the  spiky  ray  about  the  sun, 
as  for  his  perceiving  and  rendering  that  which  Claude  never  perceived, 
the  multitudinous  presence  of  radiating  light  in  the  upper  sky,  and  on 
all  its  countless  ranks  of  subtile  cloud. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


289 


the  clearness  of  the  early  Italian  and  Dutch  schools  is  beyond 
all  imitation.  But  the  common  blue  daubing  vvhicli  we  hear 
every  day  in  our  best  galleries  attributed  to  Claude  and 
Cuyp,  and  the  genuine  skies  of  Salvator,  and  of  both  the 
Poussins,  are  not  to  be  compared  for  an  instant  with  the  best 
works  of  modern  times,  even  in  quality  and  transparency  ; 
while  in  all  matters  requiring  delicate  observation  or  accu- 
rate science, — in  all  which  was  not  attainable  by  technicalities 
of  art,  and  which  depended  upon  the  artist's  knowledge  and 
understanding  of  nature,  all  the  works  of  the  ancients  are  alike 
the  productions  of  mere  children,  sometimes  manifesting  great 
sensibility,  but  proving  at  the  same  time,  feebly  developed 
intelligence  and  ill-regulated  observation. 


CHAPTER  IL 

OF  TRUTH  or   CLOUDS  :  FIRST,  OF   THE   REGIOIST   OF  THE 

CIRRUS. 

Our  next  subject  of  investigation  must  be  the  specific 
character  of  clouds,  a  species  of  truth  which  is  especially 
neglected  by  artists  ;  first,  because  as  it  is  within  the  limits 
of  possibility  that  a  cloud  may  assume  almost 

§  1.  Difficulty  of  ^  .     .     T  ^      ,  . 

ascertaining  any  form,  it  IS  difficult  to  poiut  out,  and  not  al- 

wherein  the  i       i        •  •  n 

truth  of  clouds  ways  casy  to  leel,  wherein  error  consists  ;  and 
consists.  secondly,  because  it  is  totally  impossible  to 

study  the  forms  of  clouds  from  nature  with  care  and  accu- 
racy, as  a  change  in  the  subject  takes  place  between  every 
touch  of  the  following  pencil,  and  parts  of  an  outline 
sketched  at  different  instants  cannot  harmonize,  nature  never 
having  intended  them  to  come  together.  Still  if  artists  were 
more  in  the  habit  of  sketching  clouds  rapidly,  and  as  accu- 
rately as  possible  in  the  outline,  from  nature,  instead  of  daub- 
ing down  what  they  call  "  effects  "  with  the  brush,  they 
would  soon  find  there  is  more  beaiity  about  their  forms  than 
can  be  arrived  at  by  any  random  felicity  of  invention,  how- 
ever brilliant,  and  more  essential  character  than  can  be  vio- 
VoL.  I. —19 


290 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


lated  without  incurring  the  charge  of  falsehood, — falsehood 
as  direct  and  definite,  though  not  as  traceable  as  error  in  the 
less  varied  features  of  organic  form. 

The  first  and  most  important  character  of  clouds,  is  de- 
pendent on  the  different  altitudes  at  which  they  are  formed. 
The  atmosphere  may  be  conveniently  considered  as  divided 
§  2.  Variation  ^"^^  three  spaces,  each  inhabited  by  clouds  of 
acter^at  different  specific  character  altogether  different,  though, 
elevations.  The  in  reality,  there  is  no  distinct  limit  fixed  between 

three  regions  to  ^ 

which  they  may  them  by  nature,  clouds  being  formed  at  every 

conveniently  be  ,    i  •  t  ,     .       ,  . 

considered  as  be-  altitude,  and  partaking  according  to  their  aiti- 
longing.  tude,  more  or  less  of  the  characters  of  the  upper 

or  lower  regions.  The  scenery  of  the  sky  is  thus  formed  of 
an  infinitely  graduated  series  of  systematic  forms  of  cloud, 
each  of  which  has  its  own  region  in  which  alone  it  is  formed, 
and  each  of  which  has  specific  characters  which  can  only  be 
properly  determined  by  comparing  them  as  they  are  found 
clearly  distinguished  by  intervals  of  considerable  space.  I 
shall  therefore  consider  the  sky  as  divided  into  three  regions 
— the  upper  region,  or  region  of  the  cirrus  ;  the  central  re- 
gion, or  region  of  the  stratus  ;  the  lower  region,  or  the  re- 
gion of  the  rain-cloud. 

The  clouds  which  I  wish  to  consider  as  included  in  the  up- 
per region,  never  touch  even  the  highest  mountains  of 
Europe,  and  may  therefore  be  looked  upon  as  never  formed 
§  3.  Extent  of  below  an  elevation  of  at  least  15,000  feet ;  they 
theupperregion.  are  the  motionless  multitudinous  lines  of  deli- 
cate vapor  with  which  the  blue  of  the  open  sky  is  commonly 
streaked  or  speckled  after  several  days  of  fine  weather.  I 
must  be  pardoned  for  giving  a  detailed  description  of  their 
specific  characters  as  they  are  of  constant  occurrence  in  tlie 
works  of  modern  artists,  and  I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak 
frequently  of  them  in  future  parts  of  the  work.  Their  chief 
§  4.  The  sym-  characters  are — first.  Symmetry  :  They  are 
m^e  nT^  o?^?tt  nearly  always  arranged  in  some  definite  and 
clouds.  evident  order,  commonly  in  long  ranks  reaching 

sometimes  from  the  zenith  to  the  horizon,  each  rank  com- 
posed of  an  infinite  number  of  transverse  bars  of  about  the 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


291 


same  length,  each  bar  thickest  in  the  middle,  and  terminat- 
ing in  a  traceless  vaporous  point  at  each  side  ;  the  ranks  are 
in  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and  the  bars  of  course  at  right 
angles  to  it  ;  these  latter  are  commonly  slightly  bent  in  the 
middle.  Frequently  two  systems  of  this  kind,  indicative  of 
two  currents  of  wind,  at  different  altitudes  intersect  one  an- 
other, forming  a  network.  Another  frequent  arrangement 
is  in  groups  of  excessively  fine,  silky,  parallel  fibres,  com- 
monly radiating,  or  having  a  tendency  to  radiate,  from  one 
of  their  extremities,  and  terminating  in  a  plumy  sweep  at  the 
other  : — these  are  vulgarly  known  as  '^mares'  tails."  The 
plumy  and  expanded  extremity  of  these  is  often  bent  up- 
wards, sometimes  back  and  up  again,  giving  an  appearance 
of  great  flexibility  and  unity  at  the  same  time,  as  if  the 
clouds  were  tough,  and  would  hold  together  however  bent. 
The  narrow  extremity  is  invariably  turned  to  the  wind,  and 
the  fibres  are  parallel  with  its  direction.  The  upper  clouds 
always  fall  into  some  modification  of  one  or  other  of  these 
arrangements.  They  thus  differ  from  all  other  clouds,  in 
having  a  plan  and  system  ;  whereas  other  clouds,  though 
there  are  certain  laws  which  they  cannot  break,  have  yet 
perfect  freedom  from  anything  like  a  relative  and  general 
system  of  government.  The  upper  clouds  are  to  the  lower, 
what  soldiers  on  parade  are  to  a  mixed  multitude  ;  no  men 
walk  on  their  heads  or  their  hands,  and  so  there  are  certain 
laws  which  no  clouds  violate  ;  but  there  is  nothing  except  in 
the  upper  clouds  resembling  symmetrical  discipline. 

Secondly,  Sharpness  of  Edge  :  The  edges  of  the  bars  of 
the  upper  clouds  which  are  turned  to  the  wind,  are  often 
the  sharpest  which  the  sky  shows  ;  no  outline  whatever  of 
§  5  Their  ex-  Other  kind  of  cloud,  however  marked  and 
ceeding delicacy,  energetic,  ever  approaches  the  delicate  decision 
of  these  edges.  The  outline  of  a  black  thunder-cloud  is 
striking,  from  the  great  energy  of  the  color  or  shade  of  the 
general  mass  ;  but  as  a  line,  it  is  soft  and  indistinct,  com- 
pared with  the  edge  of  the  cirrus,  in  a  clear  sky  with  a  brisk 
breeze.  On  the  other  hand,  the  edge  of  the  bar  turned  away 
from  the  wind  is  always  soft,  often  imperceptible,  melting 


292 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


into  the  blue  interstice  between  it  and  its  next  neighbor. 
Commonly  the  sharper  one  edge  is,  the  softer  is  the  other, 
and  the  clouds  look  flat,  a^d  as  if  th^j  slipped  over  each 
other  like  the  scales  of  a  fish.  When  both  edges  are  soft,  as 
is  always  the  case  when  the  sky  is  clear  and  windless,  the 
cloud  looks  solid,  round,  and  fleecy. 

Thirdly,  Multitude  :  The  delicacy  of  these  vapors  is  some- 
times carried  into  such  an  infinity  of  division,  that  no  other 
sensation  of  number  that  the  earth  or  heaven  can  give  is 
„  „       .  so  impressive.  Number  is  always  most  felt  when 

§  6.  Their  num-    .     .     ^  .  . 

ber.  it  is  symmetrical,  (vide  Burke  on  "  Sublime," 

Part  ii.  sect.  8,)  and,  therefore,  no  sea-waves  nor  fresh  leaves 
make  their  number  so  evident  or  so  impressive  as  these 
vapors.  Nor  is  nature  content  with  an  infinity  of  bars  or 
lines  alone — each  bar  is  in  its  turn  severed  into  a  number  of 
small  undulatorv  masses,  more  or  less  connected  according^  to 
the  violence  of  the  wind.  When  this  division  is  merely  effected 
by  undulation,  the'  cloud  exactly  resembles  sea-sand  ribbed 
by  the  tide  ;  but  when  the  division  amounts  to  real  separa- 
tion we  have  the  mottled  or  mackerel  skies.  Commonly,  the 
greater  the  division  of  its  bars,  the  broader  and  more  shape- 
less is  the  rank  or  field,  so  that  in  the  mottled  sky  it  is  lost 
altogether,  and  we  have  large  irregular  fields  of  equal  size, 
masses  like  flocks  of  sheep  ;  such  clouds  are  three  or  four 
thousand  feet  below  the  legitimate  cirrus.  I  have  seen  them 
cast  a  shadow  on  the  Mont  Blanc  at  sunset,  so  that  they  must 
descend  nearly  to  within  fifteen  thousand  feet  of  the  earth. 

Fourthly,  Purity  of  Color  :  The  nearest  of  these  clouds — 
those  over  the  observer's  head,  being  at  least  three  miles 
above  him,  and  nearly  all  entering  the  ordinary  sphere  of 
„  ^    ^        .  vision,  farther  from  him  still, — their  dark  sides 

§  7.     Causes  of  '  ' 

their  peculiarly  are  much  STraver  and  cooler  than  those  of  other 

delicate  coloring.  .  ,    .     , .  ^ , 

clouds,  owing  to  their  distance.  Ihey  are  com- 
posed of  the  purest  aqueous  vapor,  free  from  all  foulness  of 
earthy  gases,  and  of  this  in  the  lightest  and  most  ethereal 
state  in  which  it  can  be,  to  be  visible.  Farther,  they  receive 
the  light  of  the  sun  in  a  state  of  far  greater  intensity  than 
lower  objects,  the  beams  being  transmitted  to  them  through 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


293 


atmospheric  air  far  less  dense,  and  wholly  unaffected  by  mist, 
smoke,  or  any  other  impurity.  Hence  their  colors  are  more 
pure  and  vivid,  and  their  white  less  sullied  than  those  of  any 
other  clouds. 

Lastly,  Yariety  :  Variety  is  never  so  conspicuous,  as  when 
it  is  united  with  symmetry.  The  perpetual  change  of  form 
in  other  clouds,  is  monotonous  in  its  very  dissimilarity,  nor 
§8.  Their  vari-  is  difference  striking  where  no  connection  is  im- 
etyofform.  plied  ;  but  if  through  a  range  of  barred  clouds, 
crossing  half  the  heaven,  all  governed  by  the  same  forces 
and  falling  into  one  general  form,  there  be  yet  a  marked  and 
evident  dissimilarity  between  each  member  of  the  great  mass 
— one  more  finely  drawn,  the  next  more  delicately  moulded, 
the  next  more  gracefully  bent — each  broken  into  differently 
modelled  and  variously  numbered  groups,  the  variety  is 
doubly  striking,  because  contrasted  with  the  perfect  symme- 
try of  which  it  forms  a  part.  Hence,  the  importance  of  the 
truth,  that  nature  never  lets  one  of  the  members  of  even  her 
most  disciplined  groups  of  cloud  be  like  another  ;  but  though 
each  is  adapted  for  the  same  function,  and  in  its  great  feat- 
ures resembles  all  the  others,  not  one,  out  of  the  millions 
with  which  the  sky  is  checkered,  is  without  a  separate  beauty 
and  character,  appearing  to  have  had  distinct  thought  oc- 
cupied in  its  conception,  and  distinct  forces  in  its  produc- 
tion ;  and  in  addition  to  this  perpetual  invention,  visible  in 
each  member  of  each  system,  we  find  systems  of  separate 
cloud  intersecting  one  another,  the  sweeping  lines  mingled 
and  interwoven  with  the  rigid  bars,  these  in  their  turn  melt- 
ing into  banks  of  sand-like  ripple  and  flakes  of  drifted  and 
irregular  foam;  under  all,  perhaps  the  massy  outline  of  some 
lower  cloud  moves  heavily  across  the  motionless  buoyancy  of 
the  upper  lines,  and  indicates  at  once  their  elevation  and 
their  repose. 

Such  are  the  great  attributes  of  the  upper  cloud  region  ; 
§  9.    Total  ab-  whether  they  are  beautiful,  valuable,  or  impres- 

Beiice  of  even  the  •         •,•  , 

slightest  effort  at  sive,  it  IS  uot  our  present  business  to  decide, 

tion' in^an^^^^^^^  "or  to  cudeavor  to  discover  the  reason  of  the 

landscape.  somcwhat  remarkable  fact,  that  the  whole  field 


294 


OF  TRUTH  OF  GLOVDS. 


of  ancient  landscape  art  affords,  as  far  as  we  remember,  but 
one  instance  of  any  effort  whatever  to  represent  the  character 
of  this  cloud  region.  That  one  instance  is  the  landscape  of 
Rubens  in  our  own  gallery,  in  which  the  mottled  or  fleecy 
sky  is  given  with  perfect  truth  and  exquisite  beauty.  To 
this  should  perhaps  be  added,  some  of  the  backgrounds  of 
the  historical  painters,  where  horizontal  lines  were  required, 
and  a  few  level  bars  of  white  or  warm  color  cross  the  seren- 
ity of  the  blue.  These,  as  far  as  they  go,  are  often  very  per- 
fect, and  the  elevation  and  repose  of  their  effect  might,  we 
should  have  thought,  have  pointed  out  to  the  landscape 
painters  that  there  was  something  (I  do  not  say  much,  but 
certainly  something)  to  be  made  out  of  the  high  clouds.  Not 
one  of  them,  however,  took  the  hint.  To  whom,  among 
them  all,  can  we  look  for  the  slightest  realization  of  the  fine 
and  faithful  descriptive  passage  of  the  "  Excursion,"  already 
alluded  to  : — 

''But  rays  of  light, 
Now  suddenly  diverging*  from  the  orb, 
Retired  behind  the  mountain  tops,  or  veiled 
By  the  dense  air,  shot  upwards  to  the  crown 
Of  the  blue  firmament — aloft — and  wide  : 
And  multitudes  of  little  floating  clouds, 
Ere  we,  who  saw,  of  change  were  conscious,  pierced 
Through  their  ethereal  texture,  had  become 
Vivid  as  fire, — Clouds  separately  poised, 
Innumerable  multitude  of  forms 
Scattered  through  half  the  circle  of  the  sky ; 
And  giving  back,  and  shedding  each  on  each, 
With  prodigal  communion,  the  bright  hues 
Which  from  the  unapparent  fount  of  glory 
They  had  imbibed,  and  ceased  not  to  receive. 
That  which  the  heavens  displayed  the  liquid  deep 
Repeated,  but  with  unity  sublime." 

There  is  but  one  master  whose  works  we  can  think  of 
while  we  read  this  ;  one  alone  has  taken  notice  of  the  neg- 
§  10.  The  in-  lected  Upper  sky  ;  it  is  his  peculiar  and  favorite 
stant  fttuciy^'^of  ^^'^  5  watchcd  its  cvcry  modification,  and 

theru  by  Turner,  given  its  cvcry  phasc  and  feature  ;  at  all  hours, 
in  all  seasons,  he  has  followed  its  passions  and  its  changes, 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


295 


and  has  brought  down  and  laid  open  to  the  world  another 
apocalypse  of  heaven. 

There  is  scarcely  a  painting  of  Turner's,  in  which  serenity 
of  sky  and  intensity  of  light  are  aimed  at  together,  in  which 
these  clouds  are  not  used,  though  there  are  not  two  cases  in 
which  they  are  used  altogether  alike.  Sometimes  they  are 
crowded  together  in  masses  of  mingling  light,  as  in  the  Shy- 
lock  ;  every  part  and  atom  sympathizing  in  that  continuous 
expression  of  slow  movement  which  Shelley  has  so  beauti- 
fully touched  : — 

Underneath  the  young  gray  dawn 
A  multitude  of  dense,  white  fleecy  clouds, 
Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  mountains, 
SJiepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  windy 

At  other  times  they  are  blended  with  the  sky  itself,  felt 
only  here  and  there  by  a  ray  of  light  calling  them  into  exist- 
ence out  of  its  misty  shade,  as  in  the  Mercury  and  Argus  ; 
sometimes,  where  great  repose  is  to  be  given,  they  appear 
in  a  few  detached,  equal,  rounded  flakes,  which  seem  to  hang 
motionless,  each  like  the  shadow  of  the  other,  in  the  deep 
blue  of  the  zenith,  as  in  the  Acro-Corinth  ;  sometimes  they 
are  scattered  in  fiery  flying  fragments,  each  burning  with 
separate  energy,  as  in  the  Temeraire  ;  sometimes  woven  to- 
gether with  fine  threads  of  intermediate  darkness,  melting 
into  the  blue  as  in  the  Napoleon.  But  in  all  cases  the  ex- 
quisite manipulation  of  the  master  gives  to  each  atom  of  the 
multitude  its  own  character  and  expression.  Though  they 
be  countless  as  leaves,  each  has  its  portion  of  light,  its 
shadow,  its  reflex,  its  peculiar  and  separating  form. 

Take  for  instance  the  illustrated  edition  of  Rogers's 
Poems,*  and  open  it  at  the  80th  page,  and  observe  how 
every  attribute  which  I  have  pointed  out  in  the  upper  sky, 

*  I  use  this  work  frequently  for  illustration,  because  it  is  the  only 
one  I  know  in  which  the  engraver  has  worked  with  delicacy  enough  to 
give  the  real  forms  and  touches  of  Turner.  I  can  reason  from  these 
plates,  (in  questions  of  form  only,)  nearly  as  well  as  I  could  from  the 
drawings. 


296 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


is  there  rendered  with  the  faithfulness  of  a  mirror  :  the  lono* 
lines  of  parallel  bars,  the  delicate  curvature  from  the  wind, 
which  the  inclination  of  the  sail  shows  you  to  be  from  the 
§  11    His  vig  '         excessive  sharpness  of  every  edge 

nette,  Sunrise  on  which  is  turned  to  the  wiud,  the  faintness  of 
every  opposite  one,  the  breaking  up  of  each  bar 
into  rounded  masses,  and  finally,  the  inconceivable  variety 
with  which  individual  form  has  been  given  to  every  member 
of  the  multitude,  and  not  only  individual  form,  but  round- 
ness and  substance  even  where  there  is  scarcely  a  hairbreadth 
of  cloud  to  express  it  in.  Observe,  above  everything,  the 
varying  indication  of  space  and  depth  in  the  whole,  so  that 
you  may  look  through  and  through  from  one  cloud  to  another, 
feeling  not  merely  how  they  retire  to  the  horizon,  but  how 
they  melt  back  into  the  recesses  of  the  sky  ;  every  interval 
being  filled  with  absolute  air,  and  all  its  spaces  so  melting 
and  fluctuating,  and  fraught  with  change  as  with  repose,  that 
as  you  look,  you  will  fancy  that  the  rays  shoot  higher  and 
higher  into  the  vault  of  light,  and  that  the  pale  streak  of 
horizontal  vapor  is  melting  away  from  the  cloud  that  it 
crosses.  Now  watch  for  the  next  barred  sunrise,  and  take 
this  vignette  to  the  window,  and  test  it  by  nature's  own 
clouds,  among  which  you  will  find  forms  and  passages,  I  do 
not  say  merely  like,  but  apparently  the  actual  originals  of 
parts  of  this  very  drawing.  And  with  whom  will  you  do 
this,  except  with  Turner  ?  Will  you  do  it  with  Claude,  and 
set  that  blank  square  yard  of  blue,  with  its  round,  white,  flat 
fixtures  of  similar  cloud,  beside  the  purple  infinity  of  nature, 
with  her  countless  multitude  of  shadowy  lines,  and  flaky 
waves,  and  folded  veils  of  variable  mist  ?  Will  you  do  it  with 
Poussin,  and  set  those  massy  steps  of  unyielding  solidity, 
with  the  chariot-and-four  driving  up  them,  by  the  side  of  the 
delicate  forms  which  terminate  in  threads  too  fine  for  the 
eye  to  follow  them,  and  of  texture  so  thin  woven  that  the 
earliest  stars  shine  through  them  ?  Will  you  do  it  with 
Salvator,  and  set  that  volume  of  violent  and  restless  manu- 
factory smoke  beside  those  calm  and  quiet  bars,  which  pause 
in  the  heaven  as  if  they  would  never  leave  it  more  ? 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


297 


Now  we  have  just  seen  how  Turner  uses  the  sharp-edged 
cirri  when  he  aims  at  giving  great  transp^Rncy  of  air.  But 
it  was  shown  in  the  preceding  chapter  that  sunbeams,  or  the 
§12  His  use  of  ^PP^^^^^^<^^  them,  are  always  sharper  in  their 
the  cirrus  in  ex-  edo:e  in  proportion  as  the  air  is  more  misty,  as 

pressing  mist.  ^  \ir>i-  i  i  - 

they  are  most  denned  in  a  room  where  there  is 
most  dust  flying  about  in  it.  Consequently,  in  the  vignette 
we  have  been  just  noticing,  where  transparency  is  to  be 
given,  though  there  is  a  blaze  of  light,  its  beams  are  never 
edged  ;  a  tendency  to  rays  is  visible,  but  you  cannot  in  any 
part  find  a  single  marked  edge  of  a  rising  sunbeam,  the  sky 
is  merely  more  flushed  in  one  place  than  another.  Now  let 
us  see  what  Turner  does  when  he  wants  mist.  Turn  to  the 
Alps  at  Daybreak,  page  193,  in  the  same  book.  Here  we 
have  the  cirri  used  again,  but  now  they  have  no  sharp 
edges,  the}^  are  all  fleecy  and  mingling  with  each  other, 
though  every  one  of  them  has  the  most  exquisite  indication 
of  individual  form,  and  they  melt  back,  not  till  they  are 
lost  in  exceeding  light,  as  in  the  other  plate,  but  into 
a  mysterious,  fluctuating,  shadowy  sky,  of  which,  though 
the  light  penetrates  through  it  all,  you  perceive  every  part 
to  be  charged  with  vapor.  Notice  particularly  the  half- 
indicated  forms  even  where  it  is  most  serene,  behind  the 
snowy  mountains.  And  now,  how  are  the  sunbeams  drawn  ? 
no  longer  indecisive,  flushing,  palpitating,  every  one  is 
sharp  and  clear,  and  terminated  by  definite  shadow ;  note 
especially  the  marked  lines  on  the  upper  cloud  ;  finally, 
observe  the  difference  in  the  mode  of  indicating  the  figures, 
which  are  here  misty  and  indistinguishable,  telling  only  as 
shadows,  though  they  are  near  and  large,  while  those  in  the 
former  vignette  came  clear  upon  the  eye,  though  they  were 
so  far  off  as  to  appear  mere  points. 

Now  is  this  perpetual  consistency  in  all  points,  this  con- 
§  13.  His  con-  ^^i^tJ^^tion  of  every  fact  which  can  possibly  bear 
sistency  in  every  upon  what  we  are  to  be  told,  this  watchfulness 

minor  feature.  .  . 

of  the  entire  meaning  and  system  of  nature, 
which  fills  every  part  and  space  of  the  picture  with  coinci- 
dences of  witness,  which  come  out  upon  us,  as  they  would 


298 


OF  TBUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


from  the  reality,  ijj^re  fully  and  deeply  in  proportion  to  the 
knowledge  we  po^Wss  and  the  attention  we  give,  admirable 
or  not  ?  I  could  go  on  writing  page  after  page  on  every 
sky  of  Turner's,  and  pointing  out  fresh  truths  in  every  one. 
In  the  Havre,  for  instance,  of  the  Rivers  of  France  we  have 
a  new  fact  pointed  out  to  us  with  respect  to  these  cirri, 
namely,  their  being  so  faint  and  transparent  as  not  to  be 
distinguishable  from  the  blue  of  the  sky,  (a  frequent  case,) 
except  in  the  course  of  a  sunbeam,  which,  however,  does  not 
illumine  their  edges,  they  being  not  solid  enough  to  reflect 
light,  but  penetrates  their  whole  substance,  and  renders 
them  flat,  luminous  forms  in  its  path,  instatitly  and  totally 
lost  at  its  edge.  And  thus  a  separate  essay  would  be  re- 
quired by  every  picture,  to  make  fully  understood  the  new 
phenomena  which  it  treated  and  illustrated.  But  after  once 
showing  what  are  the  prevailing  characteristics  of  these 
clouds,  we  can  only  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  trace  them 
wherever  they  occur.  There  are  some  fine  and  characteristic 
passages  of  this  kind  of  cloud  given  by  Stanfield,  though  he 
dares  not  use  them  in  multitude,  and  is  wanting  in  those 
refined  qualities  of  form  which  it  is  totally  impossible  to  ex- 
plain in  words,  but  which,  perhaps,  by  simple  outlines,  on  a 
large  scale,  selected  from  the  cloud  forms  of  various  artists,  I 
may  in  following  portions  of  the  work  illustrate  with  the  pencil. 

Of  the  colors  of  these  clouds  I  have  spoken  before,  (Sec.  I. 
Chap.  II.;)  but  though  I  then  alluded  to  their  purity  and 
vividness,  I  scarcely  took  proper  notice  of  their  variety  ; 
§14.  The  color  of  there  is  indeed  in  nature  variety  in  all  things, 
the  upper  clouds,  ^^d  it  would  be  absurd  to  insist  on  it  in  each 
case,  yet  the  colors  of  these  clouds  are  so  marvellous  in  their 
changefulness,  that  they  require  particular  notice.  If  you 
watch  for  the  next  sunset,  when  there  are  a  considerable 
number  of  these  cirri  in  the  sky,  you  will  see,  especially  at 
the  zenith,  that  the  sky  does  not  remain  of  the  same  color 
for  two  inches  together  ;  one  cloud  has  a  dark  side  of  cold 
blue,  and  a  fringe  of  milky  white  ;  another,  above  it,  has  a 
dark  side  of  purple  and  an  edge  of  red  ;  another,  nearer  the 
sun,  has  an  under-side  of  orange  and  an  edge  of  gold  ;  these 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


299 


you  will  find  mingled  with,  and  passing  into  the  blue  of  the 
sky,  which  in  places  you  will  not  be  able  to  distinguish  from 
the  cool  gray  of  the  darker  clouds,  and  which  will  be  itself 
full  of  gradation,  now  pure  and  deep,  now  faint  and  feeble  ; 
and  all  this  is  done,  not  in  large  pieces,  nor  on  a  large  scale, 
but  over  and  over  again  in  every  square  yard,  so  that  there 
is  no  single  part  nor  portion  of  the  whole  sky  which  has  not 
in  itself  variety  of  color  enough  for  a  separate  picture,  and 
yet  no  single  part  which  is  like  another,  or  which  has  not 
some  peculiar  source  of  beauty,  and  some  peculiar  arrange- 
ment of  color  of  its  own.  Now,  instead  of  this,  you  get  in 
the  old  masters — Cuyp,  or  Claude,  or  whoever  they  may  be — 
a  field  of  blue,  delicately,  beautifully,  and  uniformly  shaded 
down  to  the  yellow  sun,  with  a  certain  number  of  similar 
clouds,  each  with  a  dark  side  of  the  same  gray,  and  an  edge 
of  the  same  yellow.  I  do  not  say  that  nature  never  does 
anything  like  this,  but  I  say  that  her  principle  is  to  do  a 
great  deal  more,  and  that  what  she  does  more  than  this, — 
what  I  have  above  described,  and  what  you  may  see  in  nine 
sunsets  out  of  ten, — has  been  observed,  attempted,  and 
rendered  by  Turner  only,  and  by  him  with  a  fidelity  and 
force  which  presents  us  with  more  essential  truth,  and  more 
clear  expression  and  illustration  of  natural  laws,  in  every 
wreath  of  vapor,  than  composed  the  whole  stock  of  heavenly 
information,  which  lasted  Cuyp  and  Claude  their  lives. 

We  close  then  our  present  consideration  of  the  upper 
clouds,  to  return  to  them  when  we  know  what  is  beautiful  ; 
we  have  at  present  only  to  remember  that  of  these  clouds, 
§  15.  Recapitu-  ^^^d  the  truths  connected  with  them,  none  be- 
lation.  £^^^  Turner  had  taken  any  notice  whatsoever  ; 

that  had  they  therefore  been  even  feebly  and  imperfectly 
represented  by  him,  they  would  yet  have  given  him  a  claim 
to  be  considered  more  extended  and  universal  in  his  state- 
ment of  truths  than  any  of  his  predecessors  ;  how  much  more 
when  we  find  that  deep  fidelity  in  his  studied  and  perfect 
skies  which  opens  new  sources  of  delight  to  every  advance- 
ment of  our  knowledge,  and  to  every  added  moment  of  our 
contemplation. 


300 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS  : — SECONDLY,  OF  THE  CENTRAL  CLOUD 

REGION. 

We  have  next  to  investigate  the  character  of  the  Central 
Cloud  Region,  which  I  consider  as  including  all  clouds  which 
are  the  usual  characteristic  of  ordinary  serene  weather,  and 
§1.  Extent  and  which  touch  and  envelop  the  mountains  of 
of^^the^^centrai  Switzerland,  but  never  affect  those  of  our  own 
cloud  region.  island  ;  they  may  therefore  be  considered  as 
occupying  a  space  of  air  ten  thousand  feet  in  height,  extend- 
ing from  five  to  fifteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

These  clouds,  according  to  their  elevation,  appear  with 
great  variety  of  form,  often  partaking  of  the  streaked  or 
mottled  character  of  the  higher  region,  and  as  often,  when 
the  precursors  of  storm,  manifesting  forms  closely  connected 
with  the  lowest  rain  clouds  ;  but  the  species  especially  char- 
acteristic of  the  central  region  is  a  white,  ragged,  irregular, 
and  scattered  vapor,  which  has  little  form  and  less  color,  and 
of  which  a  good  example  may  be  seen  in  the  largest  land- 
scape of  Cuyp,  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery.  When  this  vapor 
collects  into  masses,  it  is  partially  rounded,  clumsy,  and  pon- 
derous, as  if  it  would  tumble  out  of  the  sky,  shaded  with  a 
dull  gray,  and  totally  devoid  of  any  appearance  of  energy 
or  motion.  Even  in  nature,  these  clouds  are  comparatively 
uninteresting,  scarcely  worth  raising  our  heads 
teristic*^  clouds^  to  look  at  ;  and  on  canvas,  valuable  only  as  a 
Te^STr^n^nor  ^leans  of  introducing  light,  and  breaking  the 
repretnt^^^^^^^^^^  mouotony  of  bluc  ;  yet  they  are,  perhaps,  beyond 
are  therefore  fa-  ^\\  others  the  favoritc  clouds  of  the  Dutch  mas- 

vorite  subjects 

with  the  old  mas-  ters.    Whether  they  had  any  motive  for  the 

ters.  .  . 

adoption  of  such  materials,  beyond  the  extreme 
facility  with  which  acres  of  canvas  might  thus  be  covered  with- 
out any  troublesome  exertion  of  thought  ;  or  any  temptation 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


301 


to  such  selections  beyond  the  impossibility  of  error  where  nat- 
ure shows  no  form,  and  the  impossibility  of  deficiency  where 
she  shows  no  beauty,  it  is  not  here  the  place  to  determine. 
Such  skies  are  happily  beyond  the  reach  of  criticism,  for  he 
who  tells  you  nothing  cannot  tell  you  a  falsehood.  A  little 
flake-white,  glazed  with  a  light  brush  over  the  carefully  toned 
blue,  permitted  to  fall  into  whatever  forms  chance  might  de- 
termine, with  the  single  precaution  that  their  edges  should 
be  tolerably  irregular,  supplied,  in  hundreds  of  instances,  a 
sky  quite  good  enough  for  all  ordinary  purposes — quite  good 
enough  for  cattle  to  graze,  or  boors  to  play  at  nine-pins — 
and  equally  devoid  of  all  that  could  gratify,  inform,  or  of- 
fend. 

But  although  this  kind  of  cloud  is,  as  I  have  said,  typical 
of  the  central  region,  it  is  not  one  which  nature  is  fond  of. 
She  scarcely  ever  lets  an  hour  pass  without  some  manifesta- 
§3  The  clouds  ^i^n  of  finer  forms,  sometimes  approaching  the 
of  saivator  and  uDDcr  cirri,  somctimcs  the  lower  cumulus.  And 

Poussm.  . 

then  in  the  lower  outlines,  we  have  the  nearest 
approximation  which  nature  ever  presents  to  the  clouds  of 
Claude,  Saivator,  and  Poussin,  to  the  characters  of  which  I 
must  request  especial  attention,  as  it  is  here  only  that  we  shall 
have  a  fair  opportunity  of  comparing  their  skies  with  those 
of  the  modern  school.  I  shall,  as  before,  glance  rapidly  at 
the  great  laws  of  specific  form,  and  so  put  it  in  the  power  of 
the  reader  to  judge  for  himself  of  the  truth  of  representation. 

Clouds,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  are  not  so  much  local  vapor, 
as  vapor  rendered  locally  visible  by  a  fall  of  temperature. 
Thus  a  cloud,  whose  parts  are  in  constant  motion,  will  hover 
§  4.  Their  essen-  ^  suowy  mountain,  pursuing  constantly  the 
tiai  characters,  game  track  upon  its  flanks,  and  yet  remaining  of 
the  same  size,  the  same  form,  and  in  the  same  place,  for  half 
a  day  together.  No  matter  how  violent  or  how  capricious 
the  wind  may  be,  the  instant  it  approaches  the  spot  where 
the  chilly  influence  of  the  snow  extends,  the  moisture  it  car- 
ries becomes  visible,  and  then  and  there  the  cloud  forms  on 
the  instant,  apparently  maintaining  its  form  against  the  wind, 
though  the  careful  and  keen  eye  can  see  all  its  parts  in  the 


302 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


most  rapid  motion  across  the  mountain.  The  outlines  of  such 
a  cloud  are  of  course  not  determined  by  the  irregular  impulses 
of  the  wind,  but  by  the  fixed  lines  of  radiant  heat  which  regu- 
late the  temperature  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  mountain.  It 
is  terminated,  therefore,  not  by  changing  curves,  but  by  steady 
right  lines  of  more  or  less  decision,  often  exactly  correspond- 
ent with  the  outline  of  the  mountain  on  which  it  is  formed,  and 
falling  therefore  into  grotesque  peaks  and  precipices.  I  have 
seen  the  marked  and  angular  outline  of  the  Grandes  Jorasses, 
at  Chamounix,  mimicked  in  its  every  jag  by  a  line  of  clouds 
above  it.  Another  resultant  phenomenon  is  the  formation  of 
cloud  in  the  calm  air  to  leeward  of  a  steep  summit  ;  cloud 
whose  edges  are  in  rapid  motion,  where  they  are  affected  by 
the  current  of  the  wind  above,  and  stream  from4he  peak  like 
the  smoke  of  a  volcano,  yet  always  vanish  at  a  certain  dis- 
tance from  it  as  steam  issuing  from  a  chimney.  When  wet 
weather  of  some  duration  is  approaching,  a  small  white  spot 
of  cloud  will  sometimes  appear  low  on  the  hill  flanks  ;  it  will 
not  move,  but  will  increase  gradually  for  some  little  time, 
then  diminish,  still  without  moving  ;  disappear  altogether, 
reappear  ten  minutes  afterwards,  exactly  in  the  same  spot ; 
increase  to  a  greater  extent  than  before,  again  disappear, 
again  return,  and  at  last  permanently  ;  other  similar  spots  of 
cloud  forming  simultaneously,  with  various  fluctuations,  each 
in  its  own  spot,  and  at  the  same  level  on  the  hill-side,  until 
all  expand,  join  together,  and  form  an  unbroken  veil  of  threat- 
ening gray,  which  darkens  gradually  into  storm.  What  in 
such  cases  takes  place  palpably  and  remarkably,  is  more  or 
less  a  law  of  formation  in  all  clouds  whatsoever  ;  they  being 
bounded  rather  by  lines  expressive  of  changes  of  temperature 
in  the  atmosphere,  than  by  the  impulses  of  the  currents  of 
wind  in  which  those  changes  take  place.  Even  when  in  rapid 
and  visible  motion  across  the  sky,  the  variations  which  take 
place  in  their  outlines  are  not  so  much  alterations  of  position 
and  arrangement  of  parts,  as  they  are  the  alternate  formation 
and  disappearance  of  parts.  There  is,  therefore,  usually  a 
parallelism  and  consistency  in  their  great  outlines,  which 
give  system  to  the  smaller  curves  of  which  they  are  composed; 


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303 


and  if  these  great  lines  be  taken,  rejecting  the  minutiae  of 
variation,  the  resultant  form  will  almost  always  be  angular, 
§  5.  Their  angu-  and  full  of  character  and  decision.  In  the  flock- 
gTne/aTdecislon  fields  of  equal  masscs,  each  individual  mass 
of  outline.  has  the  effect,  not  of  an  ellipse  or  circle,  but  of 
a  rhomboid  ;  the  sky  is  crossed  and  checkered,  not  honey- 
combed ;  in  the  lower  cumuli,  even  though  the  most  rounded 
of  all  clouds,  the  groups  are  not  like  balloons  or  bubbles,  but 
like  towers  or  mountains.  And  the  result  of  this  arrange- 
ment in  masses  more  or  less  angular,  varied  with,  and  chiefly 
constructed  of,  curves  of  the  utmost  freedom  and  beauty,  is 
that  appearance  of  exhaustless  and  fantastic  energy  which 
gives  every  cloud  a  marked  character  of  its  own,  suggesting 
resemblances  to  the  specific  outlines  of  organic  objects.  I  do 
not  say  that  such  accidental  resemblances  are  a  character  to 
be  imitated  ;  but  merely  that  they  bear  witness  to  the  origi- 
nality and  vigor  of  separate  conception  in  cloud  forms,  which 
give  to  the  scenery  of  the  sky  a  force  and  variety  no  less  de- 
lightful than  that  of  the  changes  of  mountain  outline  in  a 
hill  district  of  great  elevation  ;  and  that  there  is  added  to 
this  a  spirit-like  feeling,  a  capricious,  mocking  imagery  of 
passion  and  life,  totally  different  from  any  effects  of  inani- 
mate form  that  the  earth  can  show. 

The  minor  contours,  out  of  which  the  larger  outlines  are 
composed,  are  indeed  beautifully  curvilinear  ;  but  they  are 
never  monotonous  in  their  curves.  First  comes  a  concave 
^  ^  line,  then  a  convex  one,  then  an  an2:ular  iafr, 

§6.  The  compo-    ,      '    .  .  &  J  o> 

eition  of  their  breaking    off   into  sprav,    then   a  downright 

minor  curves.  -it  J-      ^  ^  o 

straight  Ime,  then  a  curve  again,  then  a  deep 
gap,  and  a  place  where  all  is  lost  and  melted  away,  and  so 
on  ;  displaying  in  every  inch  of  the  form  renewed  and  cease- 
less invention,  setting  off  grace  with  rigidity,  and  relieving 
flexibility  with  force,  in  a  manner  scarcely  less  admirable, 
and  far  more  changeful  than  even  in  the  muscular  forms  of 
the  human  frame.  Nay,  such  is  the  exquisite  composition 
of  all  this,  that  you  may  take  any  single  fragment  of  any 
cloud  in  the  sky,  and  you  will  find  it  put  together  as  if  there 
had  been  a  year's  thought  over  the  plan  of  it,  arranged  with 


304 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


the  most  studied  inequality — with  the  most  delicate  symme- 
try— with  the  most  elaborate  contrast,  a  picture  in  itself. 
You  may  try  every  other  piece  of  cloud  in  the  heaven,  and 
you  will  find  them  every  one  as  perfect,  and  yet  not  one  in 
the  least  like  another. 

Now  it  may  perhaps,  for  anything  we  know,  or  have  yet 
proved,  be  highly  expedient  and  proper,  in  art,  that  this  va- 
riety, individuality,  and  angular  character  should  be  changed 
into  a  mass  of  convex  curves,  each  preciselvlike 

§7.  Their  char-    .  •    11        •        n  n        i  i 

acters,  as  given  its  neighbor  in  all  respects,  and  unbroken  from 
by  s.  Rosa.  beginning  to  end  ; — it  may  be  highly  original, 
masterly,  bold,  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it  ;  but  it  \s  false, 
I  do  not  take  upon  me  to  assert  that  the  clouds  which  in 
ancient  Germany  were  more  especially  and  peculiarly  de- 
voted to  the  business  of  catching  princesses  off  desert  islands, 
and  carrying  them  to  enchanted  castles,  might  not  have  pos- 
sessed something  of  the  pillowy  organization  which  we  may 
suppose  best  adapted  for  functions  of  such  delicacy  and  dis- 
patch. But  I  do  mean  to  say  that  the  clouds  which  God 
sends  upon  his  earth  as  the  ministers  of  dew,  and  rain,  and 
shade,  and  with  which  he  adorns  his  heaven,  setting  them  in 
its  vault  for  the  thrones  of  his  spirits,  have  not  in  one  instant 
or  atom  of  their  existence,  one  feature  in  common  with  such 
conceptions  and  creations.  And  there  are,  beyond  dispute, 
more  direct  and  unmitigated  falsehoods  told,  and  more  laws 
of  nature  set  at  open  defiance  in  one  of  the  rolling  "  skies 
of  Salvator,  such  as  that  marked  159  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery, 
than  were  ever  attributed,  even  by  the  ignorant  and  unfeel- 
ing, to  all  the  wildest  flights  of  Turner  put  together. 

And  it  is  not  as  if  the  error  were  only  occasional.     It  is 
systematic  and  constant  in  all  the  Italian  masters  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  in  most  of  the  Dutch.  They  looked 
at  clouds  as  at  everythino:  else  which  did  not 

§  8.     Monotony  .      ,  . 

and  falsehood  of  particularly  help  them  in  their  c^reat  end  01  de- 

the  clouds  of  the    ^       .  .  ,  ,  i    i  i  . 

Italian  School  ceptiou.  With  utter  carelcssncss  and  bluntness 
geneiaiiy.  feeling, — saw  that  there  were  a  great  many 

rounded  passages  in  them,— found  it  much  easier  to  sweep 
circles  than  to  design  beauties,  and  sat  down  in  their  studies, 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


305 


contented  with  perpetual  repetitions  of  the  same  spherical 
conceptions,  having  about  the  same  relation  to  the  clouds  of 
nature,  that  a  child's  carving  of  a  turnip  has  to  the  head  of 
the  Apollo.  Look  at  the  round  things  about  the  sun  in  the 
bricky  Claude,  the  smallest  of  the  three  Seaports  in  the 
National  Gallery.  They  are  a  great  deal  more  like  half- 
crowns  than  clouds.  Take  the  ropy,  tough-looking  wreath 
in  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  and  find  one  part  of  it,  if  you  can, 
which  is  not  the  repetition  of  every  other  part  of  it,  all  to- 
gether being  as  round  and  vapid  as  the  brush  could  draw 
them  ;  or  take  the  two  cauliflower-like  protuberances  in  No. 
220  of  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  and  admire  the  studied  similar- 
ity between  them  ;  you  cannot  tell  which  is  which  ;  or  take 
the  so-called  Nicholas  Poussin,  No.  212,  Dulwich  Gallery,  in 
which,  from  the  brown  trees  to  the  right-hand  side  of  the  pict- 
ure, there  is  not  one  line  which  is  not  physically  impossible. 

But  it  is  not  the  outline  only  which  is  thus  systematically 
false.    The  drawing  of  the  solid  form  is  worse  still,  for  it  is 
to  be  remembered  that  although  clouds  of  course  arrange 
themselves  more  or  less  into  broad  masses,  with 
of  ^' congregated  a  light  sidc  and  dark  side,  both  their  light  and 

masses  of  cloud.     it  •  'ii  ii?  • 

shade  are  invariably  composed  ot  a  series  or  di- 
vided masses,  each  of  which  has  in  its  outline  as  much  variety 
and  character  as  the  great  outline  of  the  cloud  ;  presenting, 
therefore,  a  thousand  times  repeated,  all  that  I  have  described 
as  characteristic  of  the  general  form.  Nor  are  these  multitu- 
dinous divisions  a  truth  of  slight  importance  in  the  character 
of  sky,  for  they  are  dependent  on,  and  illustrative  of,  a  qual- 
ity which  is  usually  in  a  great  degree  overlooked, — the  enor- 
mous retiring  spaces  of  solid  clouds.  Between  the  illumined 
edge  of  a  heaped  cloud,  and  that  part  of  its  body  which  turns 
into  shadow,  there  will  generally  be  a  clear  distance  of  sev- 
eral miles,  more  or  less  of  course,  according  to  the  general 
size  of  the  cloud,  but  in  such  large  masses  as  in  Poussin  and 
others  of  the  old  masters,  occupy  the  fourth  or  fifth  of  the 
visible  sky  ;  the  clear  illumined  breadth  of  vapor,  from  the 
edge  to  the  shadow,  involves  at  least  a  distance  of  five  or 
six  miles.  We  are  little  apt,  in  watching  the  changes  of  a 
Vol.  I. —20 


306 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


mountainous  range  of  cloud,  to  reflect  that  the  masses  of 
vapor  which  compose  it,  are  huger  and  higher  than  any 
§  10.  Demonstra-  mountain  range  of  the  earth  ;  and  the  distances 
Bon  witrmouS-  between  mass  and  mass  are  not  yards  of  air  tra- 
tain  ranges.  vcrscd  in  an  instant  by  the  flying  form,  but  val- 
leys of  changing  atmosphere  leagues  over ;  that  the  slow  mo- 
tion of  ascending  curves,  which  we  can  scarcely  trace,  is  a 
boiling  energy  of  exulting  vapor  rushing  into  the  heaven  a 
thousand  feet  in  a  minute  ;  and  that  the  toppling  angle 
whose  sharp  edge  almost  escapes  notice  in  the  multitudinous 
forms  around  it,  is  a  nodding  precipice  of  storms,  3000  feet 
from  base  to  summit.  It  is  not  until  we  have  actually  com- 
pared the  forms  of  the  sky  with  the  hill  ranges  of  the  earth, 
and  seen  the  soaring  Alp  overtopped  and  buried  in  one  surge 
of  the  sky,  that  we  begin  to  conceive  or  appreciate  the  colos- 
sal scale  of  the  phenomena  of  the  latter.  But  of  this  there 
can  be  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one  accustomed  to  trace 
the  forms  of  clouds  among  hill  ranges — as  it  is  there  a  demon- 
strable and  evident  fact,  that  the  space  of  vapor  visibly  ex- 
tended over  an  ordinarily  cloudy  sky,  is  not  less,  from  the 
point  nearest  to  the  observer  to  the  horizon,  than  twenty 
leagues  ;  that  the  size  of  every  mass  of  separate  form,  if  it 
be  at  all  largely  divided,  is  to  be  expressed  in  terms  of  miles  ^ 
and  that  every  boiling  heap  of  illuminated  mist  in  the  nearer 
sky,  is  an  enormous  mountain,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
feet  in  height,  six  or  seven  miles  over  an  illuminated  sur- 
face, furrowed  by  a  thousand  colossal  ravines,  torn  by  local 
tempests  into  peaks  and  promontories,  and  changing  its 
features  with  the  majestic  velocity  of  the  volcano. 

To  those  who  have  once  convinced  themselves  of  these 
proportions  of  the  heaven,  it  will  be  immediately  evident, 
that  though  we  might,  without  much  violation  of  truth,  omit 
§  11.  And  conse-  minor  divisions  of  a  cloud  four  yards  over, 
anTUr^ues'^of  the  Veriest  audacity  of  falsehood  to  omit 

feature.  those  of  masscs  where  for  yards  we  have  to  read 

miles  ;  first,  because  it  is  physically  impossible  that  such  a 
space  should  be  without  many  and  vast  divisions  ;  secondly, 
because  divisions  at  such  distances  must  be  sharply  and  fore- 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


307 


ibly  marked  by  aerial  perspective,  so  that  not  only  they  must 
be  there,  but  they  must  be  visible  and  evident  to  the  eye  ; 
and  thirdly,  because  these  multitudinous  divisions  are  abso- 
lutely necessary,  in  order  to  express  this  space  and  distance, 
which  cannot  but  be  fully  and  imperfectly  felt,  even  with 
every  aid  and  evidence  that  art  can  give  of  it. 

Now  if  an  artist  taking  for  his  subject  a  chain  of  vast 
mountains,  several  leagues  long,  were  to  unite  all  their  vari- 
eties of  ravine,  crag,  chasm,  and  precipice,  into  one  solid, 
§12.  NotiigMiy  unbrokcn  mass,  with  one  light  side  and  one  dark 
to  be  omitted.  side,  looking  like  a  white  ball  or  parallelopiped 
two  yards  broad,  the  words  breadth,"  "  boldness,"  or  gen- 
eralization," would  scarcely  be  received  as  a  sufficient  apology 
for  a  proceeding  so  glaringly  false,  and  so  painfully  degrad- 
ing. But  when,  instead  o^  the  really  large  and  simple  forms 
of  mountains,  united,  as  they  commonly  are,  by  some  great 
principle  of  common  organization,  and  so  closely  resembling 
each  other  as  often  to  correspond  in  line,  and  join  in  effect  ; 
when  instead  of  this,  we  have  to  do  with  spaces  of  cloud  twice 
as  vast,  broken  up  into  a  multiplicity  of  forms  necessary  to, 
and  characteristic  of,  their  very  nature — those  forms  subject 
to  a  thousand  local  changes,  having  no  association  with  each 
other,  and  rendered  visible  in  a  thousand  places  by  their  own 
transparency  or  cavities,  where  the  mountain  forms  would  be 
lost  in  shade, — that  this  far  greater  space,  and  this  far  more 
complicated  arrangement,  should  be  all  summed  up  into  one 
round  mass,  with  one  swell  of  white,  and  one  flat  side  of  un- 
broken gray,  is  considered  an  evidence  of  the  sublimest  pow- 
ers in  the  artist  of  generalization  and  breadth.  Now  it  may 
be  broad,  it  may  be  grand,  it  may  be  beautiful,  artistical,  and 
in  every  way  desirable.  I  don't  say  it  is  not — I  merely  say 
it  is  a  concentration  of  every  kind  of  falsehood  :  it  is  depriv- 
ing heaven  of  its  space,  clouds  of  their  buoyancy,  winds  of 
their  motion,  and  distance  of  its  blue. 

This  is  done,  more  or  less,  by  all  the  old  masters,  without 
an  exception.*    Their  idea  of  clouds  was  altogether  similar  ; 

*  Here  I  include  even  the  great  ones — even  Titian  and  Veronese, — 
excepting  only  Tintoret  and  the  religious  schools. 


308 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


more  or  less  perfectly  carried  out,  according  to  their  power 
of  hand  and  accuracy  of  eye,  but  universally  the  same  in  con- 
ception.   It  was  the  idea  of  a  comparatively 

§  13.   Imperfect        ^  /  *^ 

conceptions  of  small,  round,  puffed-up  white  body,  irregularly 
tent  in  ancient  associated  with  Other  round  and  puffed-up  white 
landscape.  bodics,  each  with  a  white  light  side,  and  a  gray 
dark  side,  and  a  soft  reflected  light,  floating  a  great  way 
below  a  blue  dome.  Such  is  the  idea  of  a  cloud  formed  by 
most  people  ;  it  is  the  first,  general,  uncultivated  notion 
of  what  we  see  every  day.  People  think  of  the  clouds  as 
about  as  large  as  they  look — forty  yards  over,  perhaps  ;  they 
see  generally  that  they  are  solid  bodies  subject  to  the  same 
laws  as  other  solid  bodies,  roundish,  whitish,  and  apparently 
suspended  a  great  way  under  a  high  blue  concavity.  So 
that  these  ideas  be  tolerably  given  with  smooth  paint,  they 
are  content,  and  call  it  nature.  How  different  it  is  from  any- 
thing that  nature  ever  did,  or  ever  will  do,  I  have  endeavored 
to  show  ;  but  I  cannot,  and  do  not,  expect  the  contrast  to 
be  fully  felt,  unless  the  reader  will  actually  go  out  on  days 
when,  either  before  or  after  rain,  the  clouds  arrange  them- 
selves into  vigorous  masses,  and  after  arriving  at  something 
like  a  conception  of  their  distance  and  size,  from  the  mode 
in  which  they  retire  over  the  horizon,  will  for  himself  trace 
and  watch  their  varieties  of  form  and  outline,  as  mass  rises 
over  mass  in  their  illuminated  bodies.  Let  him  climb  from 
step  to  step  over  their  craggy  and  broken  slopes,  let  him 
plunge  into  the  long  vistas  of  immeasurable  perspective,  that 
guide  back  to  the  blue  sky  ;  and  when  he  finds  his  imagina- 
tion lost  in  their  immensity,  and  his  senses  confused  with 
their  multitude,  let  him  go  to  Claude,  to  Salvator,  or  to 
Poussin,  and  ask  them  for  a  like  space,  or  like  infinity. 

But  perhaps  the  most  grievous  fault  of  all,  in  the  clouds 
of  these  painters,  is  the  utter  want  of  transparency.  Not 
§14.  Total  want  her  most  ponderous  and  lightless  masses  will 
aL*evan^escence  "^ture  ever  leave  us  without  some  evidence  of 
Lnci'i'nt'^^°"w-  transmitted  sunshine  ;  and  she  perpetually  gives 
scape.  us  passages  in  which  the  vapor  becomes  visible 

only  by  the  sunshine  which  it  arrests  and  holds  within  itself, 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


309 


not  caught  on  its  surface,  but  entangled  in  its  mass — float- 
ing fleeces,  precious  with  the  gold  of  heaven  ;  and  this  trans- 
lucency  is  especially  indicated  on  the  dark  sides  even  of  her 
heaviest  wreaths,  which  possess  opalescent  and  delicate  hues 
of  partial  illumination,  far  more  dependent  upon  the  beams 
which  pass  through  them  than  on  those  which  are  reflected 
upon  them.  Nothing,  on  the  contrary,  can  be  more  pain- 
fully and  ponderously  opaque  than  the  clouds  of  the  old 
masters  universally.  However  far  removed  in  aerial  dis- 
tance, and  however  brilliant  in  light,  they  never  appear  filmy 
or  evanescent,  and  their  light  is  always  on  them,  not  in  them. 
And  this  effect  is  much  increased  by  the  positive  and  per- 
severing determination  on  the  part  of  their  outlines  not  to 
be  broken  in  upon,  nor  interfered  with  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree, by  any  presumptuous  blue,  or  impertinent  winds. 
There  is  no  inequality,  no  variation,  no  losing  or  disguising 
of  line,  no  melting  into  nothingness,  nor  shattering  into 
spray  ;  edge  succeeds  edge  with  imperturbable  equanimity 
and  nothing  short  of  the  most  decided  interference  on  the 
part  of  tree-tops,  or  the  edge  of  the  picture,  prevents  us  from 
being  able  to  follow  them  all  the  way  round,  like  the  coast 
of  an  island. 

And  be  it  remembered  that  all  these  faults  and  deficiencies 
are  to  be  found  in  their  drawing  merely  of  the  separate 
masses  of  the  solid  cumulus,  the  easiest  drawn  of  all  clouds. 
§  15  Farther  nature  Scarcely  ever  confines  herself  to  such 
proof  of  their de-  masscs  1  they  form  but  the  thousandth  part  of 

ficiency  m  space.  .  .  . 

her  variety  of  effect.  She  builds  up  a  pyramid 
of  their  boiling  volumes,  bars  this  across  like  a  mountain  with 
the  gray  cirrus,  envelops  it  in  black,  ragged,  drifting  vapor, 
covers  the  open  part  of  the  sky  with  mottled  horizontal  fields, 
breaks  through  these  with  sudden  and  long  sunbeams,  tears 
up  their  edges  with  local  winds,  scatters  over  the  gaps  of 
blue  the  infinitv  of  multitude  of  the  hio;h  cirri,  and  melts 
even  the  unoccupied  azure  into  palpitating  shades.  And  all 
this  is  done  over  and  over  again  in  every  quarter  of  a  mile. 
Where  Poussin  or  Claude  have  three  similar  masses,  nature 
has  fifty  pictures,  made  up  each  of  millions  qf  minor  thoughts 


310 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


— fifty  aisles  penetrating  through  angelic  chapels  to  the 
Shechinah  of  the  blue — fifty  hollow  ways  among  bewildered 
hills — each  with  their  own  nodding  rocks,  and  cloven  preci- 
pices, and  radiant  summits,  and  robing  vapors,  but  all  unlike 
each  other,  except  in  beauty,  all  bearing  witness  to  the  un- 
wearied, exhaustless  operation  of  the  Infinite  Mind.  Now,  in 
cases  like  these  especially,  as  we  observed  before  of  general 
nature,  though  it  is  altogether  hopeless  to  follow  out  in  the 
space  of  any  one  picture  this  incalculable  and  inconceivable 
glory,  yet  the  painter  can  at  least  see  that  the  space  he  has 
at  his  command,  narrow  and  confined  as  it  is,  is  made  com- 
plete use  of,  and  that  no  part  of  it  shall  be  without  enter- 
tainment and  food  for  thought.  If  he  could  subdivide  it  by 
millionths  of  inches,  he  could  not  reach  the  multitudinous 
majesty  of  nature  ;  but  it  is  at  least  incumbent  upon  him  to 
make  the  most  of  what  he  has,  and  not,  by  exaggerating  the 
proportions,  banishing  the  variety  and  repeating  the  forms 
of  his  clouds,  to  set  at  defiance  the  eternal  principles  of  the 
heavens — fitfulness  and  infinity.  And  now  let  us,  keeping 
in  memory  what  we  have  seen  of  Poussin  and  Salvator,  take 
up  one  of  Turner's  skies,  and  see  whether  he  is  as  narrow  in 
§  16.  Instance  his  Conception,  or  as  niggardly  in  his  space.  It 
in  the^sky^o/iM^^  docs  not  matter  which  we  take,  his  sublime  Baby- 
ner's Babylon.  Ion*  is  a  fair  example  for  our  present  purpose. 
Ten  miles  away,  down  the  Euphrates,  where  it  gleams  last 
along  the  plain,  he  gives  us  a  drift  of  dark  elongated  vapor, 
melting  beneath  into  a  dim  haze  which  embraces  the  hills  on 
the  horizon.  It  is  exhausted  with  its  own  motion,  and  broken 
up  by  the  wind  in  its  own  body  into  numberless  groups  of 
billowy  and  tossing  fragments,  which,  beaten  by  the  weight 
of  storm  down  to  the  earth,  are  just  lifting  themselves  again 
on  wearied  wings,  and  perishing  in  the  effort.  Above  these, 
and  far  beyond  them,  the  eye  goes  back  to  a  broad  sea  of 
white,  illuminated  mist,  or  rather  cloud  melted  into  rain,  and 
absorbed  again  before  that  rain  has  fallen,  but  penetrated 
throughout,  whether  it  be  vapor  or  whether  it  be  dew,  with 
soft  sunshine,  turning  it  as  white  as  snow.  Gradually  as  it 
*  Engraved  in  Findel's  Bible  Illustrations. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


311 


rises,  the  rainy  fusion  ceases,  you  cannot  tell  where  the  film 
of  blue  on  the  left  begins — but  it  is  deepening,  deepening 
stilly — and  the  cloud,  with  its  edge  first  invisible,  then  all  but 
imaginary,  then  just  felt  when  the  eye  is  not  fixed  on  it,  and 
lost  when  it  is,  at  last  rises,  keen  from  excessive  distance, 
but  soft  and  mantling  in  its  body,  as  a  swan's  bosom  fretted 
by  faint  wind,  heaving  fitfully  against  the  delicate  deep  blue, 
with  white  waves,  whose  forms  are  traced  by  the  pale  lines  of 
opalescent  shadow,  shade  only  because  the  light  is  within  it, 
and  not  upon  it,  and  which  break  with  their  own  swiftness 
into  a  driven  line  of  level  spray,  winnowed  into  threads  by 
the  wind,  and  flung  before  the  following  vapor  like  those 
swift  shafts  of  arrowy  water  which  a  great  cataract  shoots 
into  the  air  beside  it,  trying  to  find  the  earth.  Beyond 
these,  again,  rises  a  colossal  mountain  of  gray  cumulus, 
through  whose  shadowed  sides  the  sunbeams  penetrate  in 
dim,  sloping,  rain-like  shafts  ;  and  over  which  they  fall  in  a 
broad  burst  of  streaming  light,  sinking  to  the  earth,  and 
showing  through  their  own  visible  radiance  the  three  suc- 
cessive ranges  of  hills  which  connect  its  desolate  plain  with 
space.  Above,  the  edgy  summit  of  the  cumulus,  broken  into 
fragments,  recedes  into  the  sky,  which  is  peopled  in  its  seren- 
ity with  quiet  multitudes  of  the  white,  soft,  silent  cirrus  ; 
and  under  these  again,  drift  near  the  zenith,  disturbed  and 
impatient  shadows  of  a  darker  spirit,  seeking  rest  and  finding 
none. 

Now  this  is  nature  !  It  is  the  exhaustless  living  energy 
with  which  the  universe  is  filled  ;  and  what  will  you  set  be- 
side it  of  the  works  of  other  men  ?  Show  me  a  single  picture, 
§  17.  And  in  his  ^he  whole  compass  of  ancient  art,  in  which  I 
Pools  of  Solomon.  p^gg  f^om  cloud  to  cloud,  from  region  to 
region,  from  first  to  second  and  third  heaven,  as  T  can  here, 
and  you  may  talk  of  Turner's  want  of  truth.  Turn  to  the 
Pools  of  Solomon,  and  walk  through  the  passages  of  mist  as 
they  melt  on  the  one  hand  into  those  stormy  fragments  of 
fiery  cloud,  or,  on  the  other,  into  the  cold  solitary  shadows 
that  compass  the  sweeping  hill,  and  when  you  find  an  inch 
without  air  and  transparency,  and  a  hairbreadth  without 


312 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


changefulness  and  thought  ;  and  when  you  can  count  the 
torn  waves  of  tossing  radiance  that  gush  from  the  sun,  as 
you  can  count  the  fixed,  white,  insipidities  of  Claude  4  or 
when  you  can  measure  the  modulation  and  the  depth  of  that 
hollow  mist,  as  you  can  the  flourishes  of  the  brush  upon  the 
canvas  of  Salvator,  talk  of  Turner's  want  of  truth! 

But  let  us  take  up  simpler  and  less  elaborate  works,  for 
there  is  too  much  in  these  to  admit  of  being  analyzed. 

In  the  vignette  of  the  Lake  of  Como,  in  Rogers's  Italy, 
the  space  is  so  small  that  the  details  have  been  partially  lost 
by  the  engraver  ;  but  enough  remain  to  illustrate  the  great 
principles  of  cloud  from  which  we  have  endeav- 
outune^nd  char-  orcd  to  explain.  Obscrve  first  the  general  angu- 
acter  in  his  Como.  outline  of  the  volumes  on  the  left  of  the  sun. 
If  you  mark  the  points  where  the  direction  of  their  outline 
changes,  and  connect  those  points  by  right  lineiB,  the  cloud 
will  touch,  but  will  not  cut,  those  lines  throughout.  Yet  its 
contour  is  as  graceful  as  it  is  full  of  character — toppling, 
ready  to  change — fragile  as  enormous — evanescent  as  colos- 
sal. Observe  how,  where  it  crosses  the  line  of  the  sun,  it 
becomes  luminous,  illustrating  what  has  been  observed  of  the 
visibility  of  mist  in  sunlight.  Observe,  above  all,  the  multi- 
plicity of  its  solid  form,  the  depth  of  its  shadows  in  perpetual 
transition  ;  it  is  not  round  and  swelled,  half  light  and  half 
dark,  but  full  of  breaking  irregular  shadow  and  transparency 
— variable  as  the  wind,  and  melting  imperceptibly  above  into 
the  haziness  of  the  sun-lighted  atmosphere,  contrasted  in  all 
its  vast  forms  with  the  delicacy  and  the  multitude  of  the 
brightly  touched  cirri.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  truth  of 
this  ;  the  cloud  is  as  gigantic  in  its  simplicity  as  the  Alp 
which  it  opposes  ;  but  how  various,  how  transparent,  how 
infinite  in  its  organization! 

I  would  draw  especial  attention,  both  here  and  in  all  other 
works  of  Turner,  to  the  beautiful  use  of  the  low  horizon- 
§  19.  AfiRocia-  tal  bars  or  fields  of  cloud,  (cirrostratus,)  which 
foXfifus^^w  u h  associate  themselves  so  frequently — more  es- 
the  cumulus.  pecially  before  storms — with  the  true  cumulus, 
floating  on  its  flanks,  or  capping  it,  as  if  it  were  a  mountain, 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


313 


and  seldom  mingling  with  its  substance,  unless  in  the  very 
formation  of  rain.  They  supply  us  with  one  of  those  beauti- 
ful instances  of  natural  composition,  by  which  the  artist  is 
superseded  and  excelled — for,  by  the  occurrence  of  these 
horizontal  flakes,  the  rolling  form  of  the  cumulus  is  both  op- 
posed in  its  principal  lines,  and  gifted  with  an  apparent 
solidity  and  vastness,  which  no  other  expedient  could  have 
exhibited,  and  which  far  exceed  in  awfulness  the  impression 
of  tlie  noblest  mountains  of  the  earth.  I  have  seen  in  the 
evening  light  of  Italy,  the  Alps  themselves  out-towered  by 
ranges  of  these  mighty  clouds,  alternately  white  in  the  star- 
light, and  inhabited  by  fire. 

Turn  back  to  the  first  vignette  in  the  Italy.    The  angular 
outlines  and  variety  of  modulation  in  the  clouds  above  the 
sail,  and  the  delicate  atmosphere  of  morning  into  which  they 
are  dissolved  about  the  breathinsr  hills,  require 

§20.    The  deep-  .      U    ^  4-     4?  ^U'  ' 

based  knowledge  no  Comment  ;  but  one  part  ot  this  vignette  de- 

of  the  Alps  in  t  .   i         ,.  •      ii  a'j-  p 

Turner's  Lake  of  mands  especial  notice  ;  it  is  the  repetition  or 
Geneva.  ^j^^  Outline  of  the  snowy  mountain  by  the  light 

cloud  above  it.  The  cause  of  this  I  have  already  explained 
(vide  page  302,)  and  its  occurrence  here  is  especially  valuable 
as  bearing  witness  to  the  thorough  and  scientific  knowledge 
thrown  by  Turner  into  his  slightest  works.  The  thing  can- 
not be  seen  once  in  six  months  ;  it  would  not  have  been  no- 
ticed, much  less  introduced  by  an  ordinary  artist,  and  to  the 
public  it  is  a  dead  letter,  or  an  offence.  Ninety-nine  persons 
in  a  hundred  would  not  have  observed  this  pale  wreath  of 
parallel  cloud  above  the  hill,  and  the  hundredth  in  all  prob- 
ability says  it  is  unnatural.  It  requires  the  most  intimate 
and  acctirate  knowledge  of  the  Alps  before  such  a  piece  of 
refined  truth  can  be  understood. 

At  the  216th  page  we  have  another  and  a  new  case,  in 
which  clouds  in  perfect  repose,  unaffected  by  wind,  or  any 

a  c^H  T.  bffluence  but  that  of  their  own  elastic  force, 
§  21.     Further        ,      ,  ,  ,  ' 

principles     of  boil,  rise,  and  melt  in  the  heaven  with  more  ap- 

cloudformexem-  i   ^     i        n  i  i 

pUficd  in  his  proach  to  globular  form  than  under  any  other 
circumstances  is  possible.    I  name  this  vignette, 
not  only  because  it  is  most  remarkable  for  the  buoyancy 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


and  elasticity  of  inward  energy,  indicated  through  the  most 
ponderous  forms,  and  affords  us  a  beautiful  instance  of  the 
junction  of  the  cirrostratus  with  the  cumulus,  of  which  we 
have  just  been  speaking  (§  19,)  but  because  it  is  a  charac- 
teristic example  of  Turner's  use  of  one  of  the  facts  of  nature 
not  hitherto  noticed,  that  the  edge  of  a  partially  transparent 
body  is  often  darker  than  its  central  surface,  because  at  the 
edge  the  light  penetrates  and  passes  through,  which  from 
the  centre  is  reflected  to  the  eye.  The  sharp,  cutting  edge 
of  a  wave,  if  not  broken  into  foam,  frequently  appears  for 
an  instant  almost  black  ;  and  the  outlines  of  these  massy 
clouds,  where  their  projecting  forms  rise  in  relief  against 
the  light  of  their  bodies,  are  almost  always  marked  clearly 
and  firmly  by  very  dark  edges.  Hence  we  have  frequently, 
if  not  constantly,  multitudinous  forms  indicated  only  by  out- 
line, giving  character  and  solidity  to  the  great  masses  of  light, 
without  taking  away  from  their  breadth.  And  Turner  avails 
himself  of  these  boldly  and  constantly,— outlining  forms 
with  the  brush  of  which  no  other  indication  is  given.  All 
the  grace  and  solidity  of  the  white  cloud  on  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  vignette  before  us,  depends  upon  such  outlines. 

As  I  before  observed  of  mere  execution,  that  one  of  the 
best  tests  of  its  excellence  was  the  expression  of  infinity ; 
so  it  may  be  noticed  with  respect  to  the  painting  of  details 
§22  Reasons  for  g^^^^rally,  that  more  difference  lies  between  one 
insisting  on  the  artist  and  another,  in  the  attainment  of  this 

infinity  of  Tur-  .  ,  ' 

ner's  works.  In-  quality,  than  in  any  other  of  the  efforts  of  art  ; 

finity  is   almost         ti        ./,  .       «  , 

an  unerring  test  and  that  II  we  wish.  Without  reierence  to  beauty 

of  all  truth.  «  ...  i       •         i?  • 

of  composition,  or  any  other  intertering  circum- 
stances, to  form  a  judgment  of  the  truth  of  painting,  per- 
haps the  very  first  thing  we  should  look  for,  whether  in  one 
thing  or  another — foliage,  or 'clouds,  or  waves — should  be 
the  expression  of  infinity  always  and  everywhere,  in  all 
parts  and  division  of  parts.  For  we  may  be  quite  sure  that 
what  is  not  infinite,  cannot  be  true  ;  it  does  not,  indeed,  fol- 
low that  w^hat  is  infinite,  always  is  true,  but  it  cannot  be  alto- 
gether false,  for  this  simple  reason  ;  that  it  is  impossible  for 
mortal  mind  to  compose  an  infinity  of  any  kind  for  itself,  or  to 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


315 


form  an  idea  of  perpetual  variation,  and  to  avoid  all  repeti- 
tion, merely  by  its  own  combining  resources.  The  moment  that 
we  trust  to  ourselves,  we  repeat  ourselves,  and  therefore  the 
moment  we  see  in  a  work  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  the  ex- 
pression of  infinity,  we  may  be  certain  that  the  workman  has 
gone  to  nature  for  it  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  moment 
we  see  repetition,  or  want  of  infinity,  we  may  be  certain  that 
the  workman  has  not  gone  to  nature  for  it. 

For  instance,  in  the  picture  of  Salvator  before  noticed,  No. 
220  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  as  we  see  at  once  that  the  two 
masses  of  cloud  absolutely  repeat  each  other  in  every  one  of 
§  23.  Instances  their  forms,  and  that  each  is  composed  of  about 
of  iUn*the\vorks  ^welve  white  swecps  of  the  brush,  all  forming 
of  Salvator.  ^he  Same  curve,  and  all  of  the  same  length  ; 
and  as  we  can  count  these,  and  measure  their  common  diam- 
eter, and  by  stating  the  same  to  anybody  else,  convey  to  him 
a  full  and  perfect  idea  and  knowledge  of  that  sky  in  all  its 
parts  and  proportions, — as  we  can  do  this,  we  may  be  abso- 
lutely certain,  without  reference  to  the  real  sky,  or  to  any 
other  part  of  nature,  without  even  knowing  what  the  white 
things  were  intended  for,  we  may  be  certain  that  they  can- 
not possibly  resemble  anything  /  that  whatever  they  were 
meant  for,  they  can  be  nothing  but  a  violent  contradiction 
of  all  nature's  principles  and  forms.  When,  on  the  other 
hand,  we  take  up  such  a  sky  as  that  of  Turner's  Rouen,  seen 
from  St.  Catherine's  Hill,  in  the  Rivers  of  France,  and  find, 
§  24  And  of  the  ^^^^  place,  that  he  has  given  us  a  distance 

universal   pres-  ovcr  the  hills  in  the  horizon,  into  which,  when 

enceofitin  -ir.  • 

those  of  Turner,  we  are  tired  of  penetrating,  we  must  turn  and 

The  conclusions  .      ,  .        ,  .  . 

which  may  bear-  come  back  again,  there  being  not  the  remotest 
rue  a  rom  i .  ^j^^j^^^  q£  getting  to  the  end  of  it  ;  and  when 
we  see  that  from  this  measureless  distance  up  to  the  zenith, 
the  whole  sky  is  one  ocean  of  alternate  waves  of  cloud  and 
light,  so  blended  together  that  the  eye  cannot  rest  on  any 
one  without  being  guided  to  the  next,  and  so  to  a  hundred 
more,  till  it  is  lost  oyer  and  over  again  in  every  wreath — 
that  if  it  divides  the  sky  into  quarters  of  inches,  and  tries 
to  count  or  comprehend  the  component  parts  of  any  single 


316 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


one  of  those  divisions,  it  is  still  as  utterly  defied  and  de- 
feated by  the  part  as  by  the  whole — that  there  is  not  one 
line  out  of  the  millions  there  which  repeats  another,  not  one 
which  is  unconnected  with  another,  not  one  which  does  not 
in  itself  convey  histories  of  distance  and  space,  and  suggest 
new  and  changeful  form  ;  then  we  may  be  all  but  certain, 
though  these  forms  are  too  mysterious  and  too  delicate  for 
us  to  analyze — though  all  is  so  crowded  and  so  connected 
that  it  is  impossible  to  test  any  single  part  by  particular  laws 
— yet  without  any  such  tests,  we  may  be  sure  that  this  in- 
finity can  only  be  based  on  truth — that  it  must  be  nature, 
because  man  could  not  have  originated  it,  and  that  every 
form  must  be  faithful,  because  none  is  like  another.  And 
therefore  it  is  that  I  insist  so  constantly  on  this  great  quality 
of  landscape  painting,  as  it  appears  in  Turner  ;  because  it  is 
not  merely  a  constant  and  most  important  truth  in  itself,  but 
it  almost  amounts  to  a  demonstration  of  every  other  truth. 
And  it  will  be  found  a  far  rarer  attainment  in  the  works  of 
§25  Themuiti  ^^^^^  men  than  is  commonly  supposed,  and  the 
plication  of  ob-  sifiTU,  wherevcr  it  is  really  found,  of  the  very 

]ects,  or  increase      .  */  ^  ♦/ 

of  their  size,  will  highest  art.    For  we  are  apt  to  forget  that  the 

not  give  the  im-  .  •  p 

pression  of  in-  greatest  number  is  no  nearer  innnity  than  the 
S=^ource^of^nov^^^  least,  if  it  be  definite  number  ;  and  the  vastest 
bulk  is  no  nearer  infinity  than  the  most  minute, 
if  it  be  definite  bulk  ;  so  that  a  man  may  multiply  his  ob- 
jects forever  and  ever,  and  be  no  nearer  infinity  than  he  had 
reached  with  one,  if  he  do  not  vary  them  and  confuse  them  ; 
and  a  man  may  reach  infinity  in  every  touch  and  line,  and 
part,  and  unit,  if  in  these  he  be  truthfully  various  and  ob- 
scure. And  we  shall  find,  the  more  we  examine  the  works 
of  the  old  masters,  that  always,  and  in  all  parts,  they  are  to- 
tally wanting  in  every  feeling  of  infinity,  and  therefore  in 
all  truth  :  and  even  in  the  works  of  the  moderns,  though  the 
aim  is  far  more  just,  we  shall  frequently  perceive  an  errone- 
ous choice  of  means,  and  a  substitution  of  mere  number  or 
bulk  for  real  infinity. 

And  therefore,  in  concluding  our  notice  of  the  central 
cloud  region,  I  should  wish  to  dwell  particularly  6n  those 


OF  TBUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


317 


skies  of  Turner's,  in  which  we  have  the  whole  space  of  the 
heaven  covered  with  the  delicate  dim  flakes  of  gathering  va- 
§  26.  Farther  in-  por,  which  are  the  intermediate  link  between 
in^^re^gmy^kies  the  Central  region  and  that  of  the  rain-cloud, 
of  Turner.  which  assemble  and  grow  out  of  the  air  ; 

shutting  up  the  heaven  with  a  gray  interwoven  veil,  before 
the  approach  of  storm,  faint,  but  universal,  letting  the  light 
of  the  upper  sky  pass  pallidly  through  their  body,  but  never 
rending  a  passage  for  the  ray.  We  have  the  first  approach 
and  gathering  of  this  kind  of  sky  most  gloriously  given  in 
the  vignette  at  page  115  of  Roger's  Italy,  which  is  one  of 
the  most  perfect  pieces  of  feeling  (if  I  may  transgress  my 
usual  rules  for  an  instant)  extant  in  art,  owing  to  the 
extreme  grandeur  and  stern  simplicity  of  the  strange  and 
omin^ous  forms  of  level  cloud  behind  the  building.  In  that 
at  page  223,  there  are  passages  of  the  same  kind,  of  exceed- 
ing perfection.  The  sky  through  which  the  dawn  is  break- 
ing in  the  Voyage  of  Columbus,  and  that  with  the  Moon- 
light under  the  Rialto,  in  Roger's  Poems,  the  skies  of  the 
Bethlehem,  and  the  Pyramids  in  Finden's  Bible  series,  and 
among  the  Academy  pictures,  that  of  the  Hero  and  Leander, 
and  Flight  into  Egypt,  are  characteristic  and  noble  ex- 
amples, as  far  as  any  individual  works  can  be  characteristic 
of  the  universality  of  this  mighty  mind.  I  ought  not 
to  forget  the  magnificent  solemnity  and  fulness  of  the 
wreaths  of  gathering  darkness  in  the  Folkstone. 

We  must  not  pass  from  the  consideration  of  the  central 
cloud  region  without  noticing  the  general  high  quality  of  the 
cloud-drawing  of  Stanfield.  He  is  limited  in  his  range,  and 
§  27.  The  excel-  ^P^  cxtcnsive  Compositions  to  repeat  him- 
dra^ng^ of  ^stan-  neither  is  he  ever  very  refined  ;  but  his 

fi^^^-  cloud-form  is  firmly  and  fearlessly  chiselled, 

with  perfect  knowledge,  though  usually  with  some  want  of 
feeling.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  very  grand  and  very  taste- 
ful, beautifully  developed  in  the  space  of  its  solid  parts  and 
full  of  action.  Next  to  Turner,  he  is  incomparably  the 
noblest  master  of  cloud-form  of  all  our  artists  ;  in  fact,  he  is 
the  only  one  among  them  who  really  can  draw  a  cloud.  For 


318 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


it  is  a  very  different  thing  to  rub  out  an  irregular  white 
space  neatly  with  the  handkerchief,  or  to  leave  a  bright 
little  bit  of  paper  in  the  middle  of  a  wash,  and  to  give  the 
^  real  anatomy  of  cloud-form  with  perfect  artic- 

§  28.  The  average  ...  . 

Btanding   of  the  ulation  of  chiaroscuro.    We  have  multitudes 

English  school.  /.        •  ^•    ^      ^  -  t> 

oi  painters  who  can  throw  a  light  bit  of  strag- 
gling vapor  across  their  sky,  or  leave  in  it  delicate  and 
tender  passages  of  breaking  light  ;  but  this  is  a  very 
different  thing  from  taking  up  each  of  those  bits  or 
passages,  and  giving  it  structure,  and  parts,  and  solidity. 
The  eye  is  satisfied  with  exceedingly  little,  as  an  indication 
of  cloud,  and  a  few  clever  sweeps  of  the  brush  on  wet  paper 
may  give  all  that  it  requires  ;  but  this  is  not  drawing 
clouds,  nor  will  it  ever  appeal  fully  and  deeply  to  the  mind, 
except  when  it  occurs  only  as  a  part  of  a  higher  sys^tem. 
And  there  is  not  one  of  our  modern  artists,  except  Stan- 
field,  who  can  do  much  more  than  this.  As  soon  as  they 
attempt  to  lay  detail  upon  their  clouds,  they  appear  to  get 
bewildered,  forget  that  they  are  dealing  with  forms  regu- 
lated by  precisely  the  same  simple  laws  of  light  and  shade  as 
more  substantial  matter,  overcharge  their  color,  confuse 
their  shadows  and  dark  sides,  and  end  in  mere  ragged  con- 
fusion. I  believe  the  evil  arises  from  their  never  attempting 
to  render  clouds  except  with  the  brush  ;  other  objects,  at 
some  period  of  study,  they  take  up  with  the  chalk  or  lead, 
and  so  learn  something  of  their  form  ;  but  they  appear  to 
consider  clouds  as  altogether  dependent  on  cobalt  and 
camel's  hair,  and  so  never  understand  anything  of  their  real 
anatomy.  But  whatever  the  cause,  I  cannot  point  to  any 
central  clouds  of  the  moderns,  except  those  of  Turner  and 
Stanfield,  as  really  showing  much  knowledge  of,  or  feeling 
for,  nature,  though  all  are  superior  to  the  conventional  and 
narrow  conceptions  of  the  ancients.  We  are  all  right  as  far 
as  we  go,  our  work  may  be  incomplete,  but  it  is  not  false  ; 
and  it  is  far  better,  far  less  injurious  to  the  mind,  that  we 
should  be  little  attracted  to  the  sky,  and  taught  to  be  satis- 
fied with  a  light  suggestion  of  truthful  form,  than  that  we 
be  drawn  to  it  by  violently  pronounced  outline  and  intense 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS,  319 


color,  to  find  in  its  finished  falsehood  everything  to  displease 
or  to  mislead — to  hurt  our  feelings,  if  we  have  foundation 
for  them,  and  corrupt  them,  if  we  have  none. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS  I  THIRDLY,   OY    THE    REGION    OF  THE 
RAIN-CLOUD. 

The  clouds  which  I  wish  to  consider  as  characteristic  of 
the  lower,  or  rainy  region,  differ  not  so  much  in  their  real 
nature  from  those  of  the  central  and  uppermost  regions, 
§  1  The  apparent  appearance,  owing  to  their  greater  near- 

difference  in  char-  ness.    For  the  central  clouds,  and  perhaps 

acter  between  the  ,  ,     ,  .  .  ■'^  , 

lower  and  central  even  the  high  cirH,  deposit  moisture,  if  not 

clouds  is  depend-  .  .         nn   •       ^  11  ^ 

ent  chiefly  on  distinctly  rain,  as  IS  sutnciently  proved  by  the 
proximity.  existence  of  snow  on  the  highest  peaks  of  the 

Himaleh  ;  and  when,  on  any  such  mountains,  we  are 
brought  into  close  contact  with  the  central  clouds,*  we  find 
them  little  differing  from  the  ordinary  rain-cloud  of  the 
plains,  except  by  being  slightly  less  dense  and  dark.  But 
the  apparent  differences,  dependent  on  proximity,  are  most 
marked  and  important. 

In  the  first  place,  the  clouds  of  the  central  region  have, 
as  has  been  before  observed,  pure  and  aerial  grays  for 
their  dark  sides,  owing  to  the  necessary  distance  from  the 
observer  ;  and  as  this  distance  permits  a 
difference^in^cofo^r^  multitude  of  local  phenomena  capable  of  in- 
fluencing color,  such  as  accidental  sunbeams, 
refractions,  transparencies,  or  local  mists  and  showers,  to 
be  collected  into  a  space  comparatively  small,  the  colors  of 
these  clouds  are  always  changeful  and  palpitating  ;  and 

*  I  am  unable  to  say  to  what  height  the  real  rain-cloud  may  extend ; 
perhaps  there  are  no  mountains  which  rise  altogether  above  storm.  I 
have  never  been  in  a  violent  storm  at  a  greater  height  than  between 
8000  and  9000  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  There  the  rain-cloud  is 
exceedingly  light,  compared  to  the  ponderous  darkness  of  the  lower  air. 


320 


OF  TBUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


whatever  degree  of  gray  or  of  gloom  may  be  mixed  with 
them  is  invariably  pure  and  aerial.  But  the  nearness  of  the 
rain-cloud  rendering  it  impossible  for  a  number  of  phenom- 
ena to  be  at  once  visible,  makes  its  hue  of  gray  monoto- 
nous, and  (by  losing  the  blue  of  distance)  warm  and  brown 
compared  to  that  of  the  upper  clouds.  This  is  especially  re- 
markable on  any  part  of  it  which  may  happen  to  be  illu- 
mined, which  is  of  a  brown,  bricky,  ochreous  tone,  never 
bright,  always  coming  in  dark  outline  on  the  lights  of  the 
central  clouds.  But  it  is  seldom  that  this  takes  place,  and 
when  it  does,  never  over  large  spaces,  little  being  usually 
seen  of  the  rain-cloud  but  its  under  and  dark  side.  This, 
when  the  cloud  above  is  dense,  becomes  of  an  inky  and  cold 
gray,  and  sulphureous  and  lurid  if  there  be  thunder  in  the 
air. 

With  these  striking  differences  in  color,  it  presents  no 
fewer  nor  less  important  in  form,  chiefly  from  losing  almost 
all  definiteness  of  character  and  outline.  It  is  sometimes 
§  3.  And  in  defi-  nothing  more  than  a  thin  mist,  whose  outline 
nitenessof  form,  ^^nnot  be  traced,  rendering  the  landscape  locally 
indistinct  or  dark  ;  if  its  outline  be  visible,  it  is  ragged  and 
torn  ;  rather  a  spray  of  cloud,  taken  off  its  edge  and  sifted 
by  the  wind,  than  an  edge  of  the  cloud  itself.  In  fact,  it 
rather  partakes  of  the  nature,  and  assumes  the  appearance, 
of  real  water  in  the  state  of  spray,  than  of  elastic  vapor. 
This  appearance  is  enhanced  by  the  usual  presence  of  formed 
rain,  carried  along  with  it  in  a  columnar  form,  ordinarily,  of 
course,  reaching  the  ground  like  a  veil,  but  very  often  sus- 
pended with  the  cloud,  and  hanging  from  it  like  a  jagged 
fringe,  or  over  it  in  light,  rain'being  always  lighter  than  the 
cloud  it  falls  from.  These  columns,  or  fringes,  of  rain  are 
often  waved  and  bent  by  the  wind,  or  twisted,  sometimes 
even  swept  upwards  from  the  cloud.  The  velocity  of  these 
vapors,  though  not  necessarily  in  reality  greater  than  that  of 
the  central  clouds,  appears  greater,  owing  to  their  proximity, 
and,  of  course,  also  to  the  usual  presence  of  a  more  violent 
wind.  They  are  also  apparently  much  more  in  the  power  of 
the  wind,  having  less  elastic  force  in  themselves  ;  but  tTiey 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


321 


are  precisely  subject  to  the  same  great  laws  of  form  which 
regulate  the  upper  clouds.  They  are  not  solid  bodies  borne 
§  4.  They  are  about  with  the  wind,  but  they  carry  the  wind 
crseir*the^  same  ^ith  them,  and  cause  it.  Every  one  knows, 
great  laws.  ^Jjq  has  ever  been  out  in  a  storm,  that  the 
time  when  it  rains  heaviest  is  precisely  the  time  when  he 
cannot  hold  up  his  umbrella  ;  that  the  wind  is  carried  with 
the  cloud,  and  lulls  when  it  has  passed.  Every  one  who  has 
ever  seen  rain  in  a  hill  country,  knows  that  a  rain-cloud,  like 
any  other,  may  have  all  its  parts  in  rapid  motion,  and  yet,  as 
a  whole,  remain  in  one  spot.  I  remember  once,  when  in 
crossing  the  Tete  Noire,  I  had  turned  up  the  valley  towards 
Trient,  I  noticed  a  rain-cloud  forming  on  the  Glacier  de 
Trient.  With  a  west  wind,  it  proceeded  towards  the  Col  de 
Balme,  being  followed  by  a  prolonged  wreath  of  vapor,  al- 
ways forming  exactly  at  the  same  spot  over  the  glacier.  This 
long,  serpent-like  line  of  cloud  went  on  at  a  great  rate  till  it 
reached  the  valley  leading  down  from  the  Col  de  Balme,  un- 
der the  slate  rocks  of  the  Croix  de  Fer,  There  it  turned 
sharp  round,  and  came  down  this  valley,  at  right  angles  to 
its  former  progress,  and  finally  directly  contrary  to  it,  till  it 
came  down  within  five  hundred  feet  of  the  village,  where  it 
disappeared  ;  the  line  behind  always  advancing,  and  always 
disappearing,  at  the  same  spot.  This  continued  for  half  an 
hour,  the  long  line  describing  the  curve  of  a  horseshoe  ;  al- 
ways coming  into  existence,  and  always  vanishing  at  exactly 
the  same  places  ;  traversing  the  space  between  with  enor- 
mous swiftness.  This  cloud,  ten  miles  off,  would  have  looked 
like  a  perfectly  motionless  wreath,  in  the  form  of  a  horse- 
shoe, hanging  over  the  hills. 

To  the  region  of  the  rain-cloud  belong  also  all  those  phe- 
nomena of  drifted  smoke,  heat-haze,  local  mists  in  the  morn- 
ing or  evenino-  •  in  valleys,  or  over  water,  mi- 

§5.  Value,  to  the       ^  ^.  '. 

painter,  of  the  rage,  whitc  Steaming  vapor  rising  in  evaporation 

rain-cloud.  «  •  a         i  p  -i  i  i  • 

irom  moist  and  open  suriaces,  and  everything 
which  visibly  affects  the  condition  of  the  atmosphere  without 
actually  assuming  the  form  of  cloud.    These  phenomena  are 
a8  perpetual  in  all  countries  as  they  are  beautiful,  and  afford 
Vol.  I.— 21 


322 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


by  far  the  most  effective  and  valuable  means  which  the  painter 
possesses,  for  modification  of  the  forms  of  fixed  objects. 
The  upper  clouds  are  distinct  and  comparatively  opaque, 
they  do  not  modify,  but  conceal  ;  but  through  the  rain- 
cloud,  and  its  accessory  phenomena,  all  that  is  beautiful  may 
be  made  manifest,  and  all  that  is  hurtful  concealed  ;  what  is 
paltry  may  be  made  to  look  vast,  and  what  is  ponderous, 
aerial  ;  mystery  may  be  obtained  without  obscurity,  and 
decoration  without  disguise.  And,  accordingly,  nature  her- 
self uses  it  constantly,  as  one  of  her  chief  means  of  most  per- 
fect effect  ;  not  in  one  country,  nor  another,  but  every  where 
— everywhere,  at  least,  where  there  is  anything  worth  call- 
ing landscape.  I  cannot  answer  for  the  desert  of  the  Sahara, 
but  I  know  that  there  can  be  no  greater  mistake,  than  sup- 
posing that  delicate  and  variable  effects  of  mist  and  rain- 
cloud  are  peculiar  to  northern  climates.  I  have  never  seen 
in  any  place  or  country  effects  of  mist  more  perfect  than  in 
§  6  The  old  ^^^^  Campagua  of  Rome,  and  among  the  hills  of 
masters  have  not  Sorrcnto.    It  is  therefore  matter  of  no  little 

left  a  single  in- 
stance of   the  marvel  to  me,  and  I  conceive  that  it  can  scarcely 

painting  of  the    ,  ,  .  n        •  ^ 

rain-cloud,  and  be  otherwise  to  any  reilectmg  person,  that 
ir^it^^  Gaspar  throughout  the  whole  range  of  ancient  land- 

roussin' a  storms.  i.    ^-l  •     j.  £  j.\  •  ^ 

scape  art,  there  occurs  no  instance  or  the  paint- 
ing of  a  real  rain-cloud,  still  less  of  any  of  the  more  delicate 
phenomena  characteristic  of  the  region.  "  Storms  "  indeed, 
as  the  innocent  public  persist  in  calling  such  abuses  of  nat- 
ure and  abortions  of  art  as  the  two  windy  Gaspars  in  our 
National  Gallery,  are  common  enough  ;  massive  concretions 
of  ink  and  indigo,  wrung  and  twisted  very  hard,  apparently 
in  a  vain  effort  to  get  some  moisture  out  of  them  ;  bear- 
ing up  courageously  and  successfully  against  a  wind,  whose 
effects  on  the  trees  in  the  foreground  can  be  accounted  for 
only  on  the  supposition  that  they  are  all  of  the  India-rubber 
species.  Enough  of  this  in  all  conscience  we  have,  and  to 
spare  ;  but  for  the  legitimate  rain-cloud,  with  its  ragged  and 
spray-like  edge,  its  veilly  transparency,  and  its  columnar  bur- 
den of  blessing,  neither  it,  nor  anything  like  it,  or  approaching 
it,  occurs  in  any  painting  of  the  old  masters  that  I  have  ever 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


323 


seen ;  and  I  have  seen  enough  to  warrant  my  affirming  that  if  it 
occur  anywhere,  it  must  be  through  accident  rather  than  in- 
tention. Nor  is  there  stronger  evidence  of  any  perception,  on 
the  part  of  these  much  respected  artists,  that  there  were  such 
things  in  the  world  as  mists  or  vapors.  If  a  cloud  under 
their  direction  ever  touches  a  mountain,  it  does  it  effectually 
and  as  if  it  meant  to  do  it.  There  is  no  mystifying  the  mat- 
ter ;  here  is  a  cloud,  and  there  is  a  hill  ;  if  it  is  to  come  on 
at  all,  it  comes  on  to  some  purpose,  and  there  is  no  hope  of 
its  ever  going  off  again.  We  have,  therefore,  little  to  say 
of  the  efforts  of  the  old  masters,  in  any  scenes  which  might 
naturally  have  been  connected  with  the  clouds  of  the  lowest 
region,  except  that  the  faults  of  form  specified  in  consider- 
ing the  central  clouds,  are,  by  way  of  being  energetic  or  sub- 
lime, more  glaringly  and  audaciously  committed  in  their 
"  storms  ;  "  and  that  what  is  a  wrong  form  among  clouds 
possessing  form,  is  there  given  with  increased  generosity  of 
fiction  to  clouds  which  have  no  form  at  all. 

Supposing  that  we  had  nothing  to  show  in  modern  art,  of 
the  region  of  the  rain-cloud,  but  the  dash  of  Cox,  the  blot  o^ 
de  Wint,  or  even  the  ordinary  stormy  skies  of  the  body  of 
§7.  The  great  our  inferior  water-color  painters,  we  might  yet 
moderns  this  ^^ugh  all  efforts  of  the  old  masters  to  utter  scorn, 
i-espect.  'Bnt  One  among  our  water-color  artists,  deserves 

especial  notice — before  we  ascend  the  steps  of  the  solitary 
throne — as  having  done  in  his  peculiar  walk,  what  for  faith- 
ful and  pure  truth,  truth  indeed  of  a  limited  range  and  un- 
studied application,  but  yet  most  faithful  and  most  pure,  will 
remain  unsurpassed  if  not  unrivalled, — Copley  Fielding.  We 
§  8,  Works  of  VfeW  aware  how  much  of  what  he  has  done 
Copley  Fielding.  Jepcnds  in  a  great  degree  upon  particular  tricks 
of  execution,  or  on  a  labor  somewhat  too  mechanical  to  be 
meritorious  ;  that  it  is  rather  the  texture  than  the  pla7%  of  his 
sky  which  is  to  be  admired,  and  that  the  greater  part  of  what 
is  pleasurable  in  it  will  fall  rather  under  the  head  of  dexterous 
imitation  than  of  definite  thought.  But  whatever  detrac- 
tions from  his  merit  we  may  be  compelled  to  make  on  these 
grounds,  in  considering  art  as  the  embodying  of  beauty,  or 


324 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


the  channel  of  mind,  it  is  impossible,  when  we  are  speaking 
of  truth  only,  to  pass  by  his  down  scenes  and  moorland  show- 
ers, of  some  years  ago,  in  which  he  produced  some  of  the 
most  perfect  and  faultless  passages  of  mist  and  rain-cloud 
§9.  His  peculiar  w^^^^  hasever  seen.    Wet,  transparent, 

formless,  full  of  motion,  felt  rather  by  their 
shadows  on  the  hills  than  by  their  presence  in  the  sky,  be- 
coming dark  only  through  increased  depth  of  space,  most 
translucent  where  most  sombre,  and  light  only  through  in- 
creased buoyancy  of  motion,  letting  the  blue  through  their 
interstices,  and  the  sunlight  through  their  chasms,  with 
the  irregular  playfulness  and  traceless  gradation  of  nature 
herself,  his  skies  will  remain,  as  long  as  their  colors  stand, 
among  the  most  simple,  unadulterated,  and  complete  tran- 
scripts of  a  particular  nature  which  art  can  point  to.  Had 
he  painted  five  instead  of  five  hundred  such,  and  gone  on  to 
other  sources  of  beauty,  he  might,  there  can  be  little  doubt, 
have  been  one  of  our  greatest  artists.  But  it  often  grieves 
^ .      ,    us  to  see  how  his  power  is  limited  to  a  particu- 

§  10.   His  weak-  ^  ,  „  ^  .     .  - 

fiessanditsprob-  lar  moment,  to  that  easiest  moment  for  imita- 
tion, when  knowledge  of  form  may  be  super- 
seded by  management  of  the  brush,  and  the  judgment  of  the 
colorist  by  the  manufacture  of  a  color ;  the  moment  when  all 
form  is  melted  down  and  drifted  away  in  the  descending  veil 
of  rain,  and  when  the  variable  and  fitful  colors  of  the  heaven 
are  lost  in  the  monotonous  gray  of  its  storm  tones.*  We 
can  only  account  for  this  by  supposing  that  there  is  some- 
thing radically  wrong  in  his  method  of  study  ;  for  a  man  of 

*  I  ought  here,  however,  to  have  noted  another  effect  of  the  rain- 
cloud,  which,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  been  rendered  only  by  Copley  Field- 
ing It  is  seen  chiefly  in  clouds  gathering  for  rain,  when  the  sky  is  en- 
tirely covered  with  a  gray  veil  rippled  or  waved  with  pendent  swells  of 
soft  texture,  but  excessively  hard  and  liny  in  their  edges.  I  am  not 
sure  that  this  is  an  agreeable  or  impressive  form  of  the  rain-cloud,  btit 
it  is  a  frequent  one,  and  it  is  often  most  faithfully  given  by  Fielding  ; 
only  in  some  cases  the  edges  becoming  a  little  doubled  and  harsh  have 
given  a  look  of  failure  or  misadventure  to  some  even  of  the  best  studied 
passages  ;  and  something  of  the  same  hardness  of  line  is  occasionally 
visible  in  his  drawing  of  clouds  by  whose  nature  it  is  not  warranted. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


325 


his  evident  depth  of  feeling  and  pure  love  of  truth  ought  not 
to  be,  cannot  be,  except  from  some  strange  error  in  his  mode 
of  out-of-door  practice,  thus  limited  in  his  range,  and  liable 
to  decline  of  power.  We  have  little  doubt  that  almost  all 
such  failures  arise  from  the  artist's  neglecting  the  use  of  the 
chalk,  and  supposing  that  either  the  power  of  drawing  forms, 
or  the  sense  of  their  beauty,  can  be  maintained  unweakened 
or  unblunted,  without  constant  and  laborious  studies  in  sim- 
ple light  and  shade,  of  form  only.  The  brush  is  at  once  the 
artist's  greatest  aid  and  enemy  ;  it  enables  him  to  make  his 
power  available,  but  at  the  same  time,  it  undermines  his 
power,  and  unless  it  be  constantly  rejected  for  the  pencil, 
never  can  be  rightly  used.  But  whatever  the  obstacle  be, 
we  do  not  doubt  that  it  is  one  which,  once  seen,  may  be  over- 
come or  removed  ;  and  we  are  in  the  constant  hope  of  seeing 
this  finely-minded  artist  shake  off  his  lethargy,  break  the 
shackles  of  habit,  seek  in  extended  and  right  study  the 
sources  of  real  power,  and  become,  what  we  have  full  faith 
in  his  capability  of  being,  one  of  the  leading  artists  of  his 
time. 

In  passing  to  the  works  of  our  greatest  modern  master,  it 
must  be  premised  that  the  qualities  which  constitute  a  most 
essential  part  of  the  truth  of  the  rain-cloud,  are  in  no  degree 
.      to  be  rendered  by  ens^ravins:.   Its  indefiniteness 

§  11.  Impossibil-  J       &  &  ^ 

ity  of  reasoning  of  torn  and  transparent  form  is  far  beyond  the 

ontherain-  . 

clouds  of  Turner  powcr  oi  cvcn  our  bcst  eugravcrs  :  I  do  not  say 
lom  engravings,  j^^^^jj^  t\\Q\v  possible  powcr,  if  they  would  make 
themselves  artists  as  well  as  workmen,  but  far  beyond  the 
power  they  actually  possess  ;  while  the  depth  and  delicacy 
of  the  grays  which  Turner  employs  or  produces,  as  well  as 
the  refinement  of  his  execution,  are,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
utterly  beyond  all  imitation  by  the  opaque  and  lifeless  dark- 
ness of  the  steel.  What  w^e  say  of  his  works,  therefore,  must 
be  understood  as  referring  only  to  the  original  drawings  ; 
though  we  may  name  one  or  two  instances  in  which  the  en- 
graver has,  to  a  certain  degree,  succeeded  in  distantly  fol- 
lowing the  intention  of  the  master. 

Jumieges,  in  the  Rivers  of  France,  ought  perhaps,  after 


326 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


what  we  have  said  of  Fielding,  to  be  our  first  object  of  at- 
tention, because  it  is  a  rendering  by  Turner  of  Fielding's  par- 
§12  His  render-  ^^^^^^^^  moment,  and  the  only  one  existing,  for 
ing  of  Fielding's  Turner  never  repeats  himself.    One  picture  is 

particular    mo-  ^  r  ^ 

ment   in    the  allotted  to  One  truth  :  the  statement  is  perfect- 

Jumieges. 

ly  and  gloriously  made,  and  he  passes  on  to 
speak  of  a  fresh  portion  of  God's  revelation.*  The  haze  of 
sunlit  rain  of  this  most  magnificent  picture,  the  gradual  re- 
tirement of  the  dark  wood  into  its  depth,  and  the  sparkling 
and  evanescent  light  which  sends  its  variable  flashes  on  the 
abbey,  figures,  foliage,  and  foam,  require  no  comment — they 
speak  home  at  once.  But  there  is  added  to  this  noble  com- 
^„  ,         position  an  incident  which  may  serve  us  at 

§13.  Illustration  .  , 

ofti^e  nature  of  oncc  for  a  farther  illustration  of  the  nature  and 
posed  forms  of  forms  of  cloud,  and  for  a  final  proof  how  deeply 
and  philosophically  Turner  has  studied  them. 
We  have  on  the  right  of  the  picture,  the  steam  and  the 
smoke  of  a  passing  steamboat.  Now  steam  is  nothing  but 
an  artificial  cloud  in  the  process  of  dissipation  ;  it  is  as  much 
a  cloud  as  those  of  the  sky  itself,  that  is,  a  quantity  of  moist- 
ure rendered  visible  in  the  air  by  imperfect  solution.  Ac- 
cordingly, observe  how  exquisitely  irregular  and  broken  are 
its  forms,  how  sharp  and  spray-like  ;  but  with  all  the  facts 
observed  which  were  pointed  out  in  Chap.  II.  of  this  Section, 
the  convex  side  to  the  wind,  the  sharp  edge  on  that  side,  the 
other  soft  and  lost.  Smoke,  on  the  contrary,  is  an  actual 
substance  existing  independently  in  the  air,  a  solid  opaque 
body,  subject  to  no  absorption  nor  dissipation  but  that  of 
tenuity.  Observe  its  volumes  ;  there  is  no  breaking  up  nor 
disappearing  here  ;  the  wind  carries  its  elastic  globes  be- 
fore it,  but  does  not  dissolve  nor  break  them.f  Equally 
convex  and  void  of  angles  on  all  sides,  they  are  the  exact 
representatives  of  the  clouds  of  the  old  masters,  and  serve 
at  once  to  show  the  ignorance  and  falsehood  of  these  latter, 

*  Compare  Sect.  I.  Chap.  IV.  §  5. 

f  It  does  not  do  so  until  the  volumes  lose  their  density  by  inequality 
of  motion,  and  by  the  expansion  of  the  warm  air  which  conveys  them. 
They  are  then,  of  course,  broken  into  forms  resembling  those  of  clouds. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


327 


and  the  accuracy  of  study  which  has  guided  Turner  to  the 
truth. 

From  this  picture  we  should  pass  to  the  Llanthony,*  which 
is  the  rendering  of  the  moment  immediately  following  that 
given  in  the  Jumieges.  The  shower  is  here  half  exhausted, 
half  passed  by,  the  last  drops  are  rattling  faintly  through  the 
glimmering  hazel  boughs,  the  white  torrent,  swelled  by  the 
sudden  storm,  flings  up  its  hasty  jets  of  spring- 
fetfriiig^rain^ in  ing  spray  to  meet  the  returning  light;  and  these, 
the  Liantaony.  heavcu  regretted  what  it  had  given, 

and  were  taking  it  back,  pass,  as  they  leap,  into  vapor,  and 
fall  not  again,  but  vanish  in  the  shafts  of  the  sunlight  f  — 
hurrying,  fitful,  wind-woven  sunlight — which  glides  through 
the  thick  leaves,  and  paces  along  the  pale  rocks  like  rain  ; 
half  conquering,  half  quenched  by  the  very  mists  which  it 
summons  itself  from  the  lighted  pastures  as  it  passes,  and 
gathers  out  of  the  drooping  herbage  and  from  the  streaming 
crags  ;  sending  them  with  messages  of  peace  to  the  far  sum- 
mits of  the  yet  unveiled  mountains  whose  silence  is  still  broken 
by  the  sound  of  the  rushing  rain. 

With  this  noble  work  we  should  compare  one  of  which  we 
can  better  iudo'e  by  the  ensfravins^ — the  Loch 

§15.  And  of  com-    ^     .  ,  .       ,    \  ^        .  c  , 

mencing,  chosen  Coriskin,  lu  the  illustrations  to  bcott,  because  it 

with  peculiar.  ,  ,  ,  iii 

meaning  for  introduces  US  to  another  and  a  most  remarkable 
Loch  Conskin.  instance  of  the  artist's  vast  and  varied  knowl- 
edge.   When  rain  falls  on  a  mountain  composed  chiefly  of 

*  No  conception  can  be  formed  of  this  picture  from  the  engraving. 
It  is  perhaps  the  most  marvellous  piece  of  execution  and  of  gray  color 
existing,  except  perhaps  the  drawing  presently  to  be  noticed,  Land's 
End.  Nothing  else  can  be  set  beside  it,  even  of  Turner's  own  works — 
much  less  of  any  other  man's. 

f  I  know  no  effect  more  strikingly  characteristic  of  the  departure  of  a 
storm  than  the  smoking  of  the  mountain  torrents.  The  exhausted  air 
is  so  thirsty  of  moisture,  that  every  jet  of  spray  is  seized  upon  by  it,  and 
converted  into  vapor  as  it  springs  ;  and  this  vapor  rises  so  densely  from 
the  surface  of  the  stream  as  to  give  it  the  exact  appearance  of  boiling 
water.  I  have  seen  the  whole  course  of  the  Arve  at  Chamonix  one  line 
of  dense  cloud,  dissipating  as  soon  as  it  had  risen  ten  or  twelve  feet  from 
the  surface,  but  entirely  concealing  the  water  from  an  observer  placed 
above  it. 


328 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


barren  rocks,  their  surfaces,  being  violently  heated  by  the  sun^ 
whose  most  intense  warmth  always  precedes  rain,  occasion 
sudden  and  violent  evaporation,  actually  converting  the  first 
shower  into  steam.  Consequently,  upon  all  such  hills,  on  the 
commencement  of  rain,  white  volumes  of  vapor  are  instanta- 
neously and  universally  formed,  which  rise,  are  absorbed  by 
the  atmosphere,  and  again  descend  in  rain,  to  rise  in  fresh 
volumes  until  the  surfaces  of  the  hills  are  cooled.  Where 
there  is  grass  or  vegetation,  this  effect  is  diminished  ;  w^here 
there  is  foliage  it  scarcely  takes  place  at  all.  Now  this  ef- 
fect has  evidently  been  especially  chosen  by  Turner  for  Loch 
Coriskin,  not  only  because  it  enabled  him  to  relieve  its  jagged 
forms  with  veiling  vapor,  but  to  tell  the  tale  which  no  pen- 
cilling could,  the  story  of  its  utter  absolute  barrenness  of  un- 
lichened,  dead,  desolated  rock  : — 

*'  The  wildest  glen,  but  this,  can  show 
Some  touch  of  nature's  genial  glow, 
On  high  Benmore  green  mosses  grow. 
And  heath-bells  bud  in  deep  Glencoe. 
And  copse  on  Cruchan  Ben  ; 
But  here,  above,  around,  below, 
On  mountain,  or  in  glen, 
Nor  tree,  nor  plant,  nor  shrub,  nor  flower, 
Nor  aught  of  vegetative  power, 
The  wearied  eye  may  ken  ; 
But  all  its  rocks  at  random  thrown, 
Black  waves,  bare  crags,  and  banks  of  stone." 

Lord  of  the  Isles,  Canto  III. 

Here,  again,  we  see  the  absolute  necessity  of  scientific  and 
entire  acquaintance  with  nature,  before  this  great  artist  can 
be  understood.  That  which,  to  the  ignorant,  is  little  more 
tfian  an  unnatural  and  meaningless  confusion  of  steam-like 
vapor,  is  to  the  experienced  such  a  full  and  perfect  expres- 
sion of  the  character  of  the  spot,  as  no  means  of  art  could 
have  otherwise  given. 

In  the  Long  Ships  Lighthouse,  Land's  End,  we  have 
§16.  The  draw-  clouds  Without  rain — at  twilight — enveloping 
entvapo^iTthe  ^^c  cHffs  of  the  coast,  but  couccaliug  nothing, 
Land's  End.       every  outline  being  visible  through  their  o^loom  ; 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


329 


and  not  only  the  outline — for  it  is  easy  to  do  this — but 
the  surface.  The  bank  of  rocky  coast  approaches  the  spec- 
tator inch  by  inch,  felt  clearer  and  clearer  as  it  withdraws 
from  the  garment  of  cloud — not  by  edges  more  and  more 
defined,  but  by  a  surface  more  and  more  unveiled.  We 
have  thus  the  painting,  not  of  a  mere  trar^sparent  veil,  but 
of  a  solid  body  of  cloud,  every  inch  of  whose  increasing  dis- 
tance is  marked  and  felt.  But  the  great  wonder  of  the 
picture  is  the  intensity  of  gloom  which  is  attained  in  pure 
warm  gray,  without  either  blackness  or  blueness.  It  is  a 
gloom,  dependent  rather  on  the  enormous  space  and  depth 
indicated,  than  on  actual  pitch  of  color,  distant  by  real 
drawing,  without  a  grain  of  blue,  dark  by  real  substance, 
without  a  stroke  of  blackness  ;  and  with  all  this,  it  is  not 
formless,  but  full  of  indications  of  character,  wild,  irregular, 
shattered,  and  indefinite — full  of  the  energy  of  storm,  fiery 
in  haste,  and  yet  flinging  back  out  of  its  motion  the  fitful 
swirls  of  bounding  drift,  of  tortured  vapor  tossed  up  like 
men's  hands,  as  in  defiance  of  the  tempest,  the  jets  of  result- 
ing whirlwind,  hurled  back  from  the  rocks  into  the  face  of 
the  coming  darkness  ;  which,  beyond  all  other  characters, 
mark  the  raised  passion  of  the  elements.  It  is  this  untrace- 
§17  Theindivid  Unconnected,  yet  perpetual  form — this  ful- 

uai  character  of  ness  of  character  absorbed  in  the  universal  en- 
its  parts. 

ergy — which  distinguish  nature  and  Turner 
from  all  their  imitators.  To  roll  a  volume  of  smoke  before 
the  wind,  to  indicate  motion  or  violence  by  monotonous  sim- 
ilarity of  line  and  direction,  is  for  the  multitude  ;  but  to 
mark  the  independent  passion,  the  tumultuous  separate  ex- 
istence of  every  wreath  of  writhing  vapor,  yet  swept  away 
and  overpowered  by  one  omnipotence  of  storm,  and  thus  to 
bid  us 

Be  as  a  Presence  or  a  motion — one 

Among  the  many  there  while  the  mists 

Flying,  and  rainy  vapors,  call  out  shapes 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth, 
As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument," — 

this  belongs  only  to  nature  and  to  him. 


330 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


The  drawing  of  Coventry  may  be  particularized  as  a  far- 
ther example  of  this  fine  suggestion  of  irregularity  and  fit- 
fulness,  through  very  constant  parallelism  of  direction,  both 
_      .  ^   in  rain  and  clouds.    The  srreat  mass  of  cloud, 

§18.  Deep  stud-  ^  ^  ^  ^  ' 

ied  form  of  swift  which  traverscs  the  whole  picture,  is  character- 

rain-cloud  in  the  ,  , 

Coventry.  izcd  throughout  by  severe  right  Imes,  nearly 

parallel  with  each  other,  into  which  everyone  of  its  wreaths 
has  a  tendency  to  range  itself  ;  but  no  one  of  these  right 
lines  is  actually  and  entirely  parallel  to  any  other,  though 
all  have  a  certain  tendency,  more  or  less  defined  in  each, 
which  impresses  the  mind  with  the  most  distinct  idea  of 
parallelism.  Neither  are  any  of  the  lines  actually  straight 
and  unbroken  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  all  made  up  of  the 
most  exquisite  and  varied  curves,  and  it  is  the  imagined  line 
which  joins  the  apices  of  these — a  tangent  to  them  all,  which 
is  in  reality  straight.*  They  are  suggested,  not  represented, 
right  lines  ;  but  the  whole  volume  of  cloud  is  visibly  and 
totally  bounded  by  them  ;  and,  in  consequence,  its  whole 
body  is  felt  to  be  dragged  out  and  elongated  by  the  force  of 
the  tempest  which  it  carries  with  it,  and  every  one  of  its 
wreaths  to  be  (as  was  before  explained)  not  so  much  some- 
thing borne  before  or  by  the  wind,  as  the  visible  form  and 
presence  of  the  wind  itself.  We  could  not  possibly  point 
out  a  more  magnificent  piece  of  drawing  as  a  contrast  to 
^      ^        ,  such  works  of  Salvator  as  that  before  alluded 

§  19.  Compared 

with  forms  given  to  (159  Dulwich  Gallery).  Both  are  rolling 
masses  of  connected  cloud  ;  but  in  Turner's, 
there  is  not  one  curve'  that  repeats  another,  nor  one  curve  in 
itself  monotonous,  nor  without  character,  and  yet  every  part 
and  portion  of  the  cloud  is  rigidly  subjected  to  the  same  for- 
ward, fierce,  inevitable  influence  of  storm.  In  Salvator's, 
every  curve  repeats  its  neighbor,  every  curve  is  monotonous 
in  itself,  and  yet  the  whole  cloud  is  curling  about  hither  and 
thither,  evidently  without  the  slightest  notion  where  it  is 
going  to,  and  unregulated  by  any  general  influence  whatso- 
ever.   I  could  not  brinof  togrether  two  finer  or  more  instruc- 


*  Note  especially  the  dark  uppermost  outline  of  the  mass. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


831 


tive  examples,  the  one  of  everything  that  is  perfect,  the 
other  of  everything  that  is  childish  or  abominable,  in  the 
representation  of  the  same  facts. 

But  there  is  yet  more  to  be  noticed  in  this  noble  sky  of 
Turner's.  Not  only  are  the  lines  of  the  rolling  cloud  thus  ir- 
regular in  their  parallelism,  but  those  of  the  falling  rain  are 
§20.  Entire  ex-  equally  Varied  in  their  direction,  indicating  the 
pesfb?  minuTe  g^sty  changcf ulucss  of  the  v^ind,  and  yet  kept 
touches  and  cir-       straight  and  stern  in  their  individual  descent, 

cumstances     in  &  > 

the  Coventry.  that  we  are  not  suffered  to  forget  its  strength. 
This  impression  is  still  farther  enhanced  by  the  drawing  of 
the  smoke,  which  blows  every  way  at  once,  yet  turning  per- 
petually in  each  of  its  swirls  back  in  the  direction  of  the 
w^ind,  but  so  suddenly  and  violently,  as  almost  to  assume  the 
angular  lines  of  lightning.  Farther,  to  complete  the  impres- 
sion, be  it  observed  that  all  the  cattle,  both  upon  the  near  and 
distant  hill-side,  have  left  off  grazing,  and  are  standing  stock 
still  and  stiff,  with  their  heads  down  and  their  backs  to  the 
wind  ;  and  finally,  that  we  may  be  told  not  only  what  the 
storm  is,  but  what  it  has  been,  the  gutter  at  the  side  of  the 
road  is  gushing  in  a  complete  torrent,  and  particular  atten- 
tion is  directed  to  it  by  the  full  burst  of  light  in  the  sky  being 
brought  just  above  it,  so  that  all  its  waves  are  bright  with 
the  reflection. 

But  I  have  not  quite  done  with  this  noble  picture  yet.  Im- 
petuous clouds,  twisted  rain,  flickering  sunshine,  fleeting 
shadow,  gushing  water,  and  oppressed  cattle,  all  speak  the 
§  21.  Especially  Same  story  of  tumult,  fitful ness,  powder,  and  ve- 
7^^:'orel  locity.  Only  one  thing  is  wanted,  a  passage 
treme  repose.  repose  to  contrast  with  it  all,  and  it  is  given. 

High  and  far  above  the  dark  volumes  of  the  swift  rain-cloud, 
are  seen  on  the  left,  through  their  opening,  the  quiet,  hori- 
zontal, silent  flakes  of  the  highest  cirrus,  resting  in  the  repose 
of  the  deep  sky.  Of  all  else  that  we  have  noticed  in  this  draw- 
ing, some  faint  idea  can  be  formed  from  th^  engraving  :  but 
not  the  slightest  of  the  delicate  and  soft  forms  of  these  paus- 
ing vapors,  and  still  less  of  the  exquisite  depth  and  palpitat- 
ing tenderness  of  the  blue  with  which  they  are  islanded.  En- 


332 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


gravers,  indeed,  invariably  lose  the  effect  of  all  passages  of 
cold  color,  under  the  mistaken  idea  that  it  is  to  be  kept  pale 
in  order  to  indicate  distance  ;  whereas  it  ought  commonly 
to  be  darker  than  the  rest  of  the  sky. 

To  appreciate  the  full  truth  of  this  passage,  we  must  un- 
derstand another  effect  peculiar  to  the  rain-cloud,  that  its 
openings  exhibit  the  purest  blue  which  the  sky  ever  shows. 
§2-2   The  truth  ^^^^  chapter  of  this  sec- 

of  this  particular  tiou,  that  aqueous  vapor  always  turns  the  skv 

passage.  Per-  •     r»  n 

fectly  pure  blue  more  or  Icss  gray,  it  follows  that  we  never  can 

skv   only    seen  ,  .  ,  . 

after  rain,  and  See  the  azure  SO  intense  as  when  the  greater 
how  seen.  ^^^^      ^j^.^  vapor  has  just  fallen  in  rain.  Then, 

and  then  only,  pure  blue  sky  becomes  visible  in  the  first 
openings,  distinguished  especially  by  the  manner  in  whick 
the  clouds  melt  into  it  ;  their  edges  passing  off  in  faint  white 
threads  and  fringes,  through  which  the  blue  shines  more  and 
more  intensely,  till  the  last  trace  of  vapor  is  lost  in  its  per- 
fect color.  It  is  only  the  upper  white  clouds,  however,  which 
do  this,  or  the  last  fragments  of  rain-clouds,  becoming  white 
as  they  disappear,  so  that  the  blue  is  never  corrupted  by  the 
cloud,  but  only  paled  and  broken  with  pure  white,  the  pur- 
est white  which  the  sky  ever  shows.  Thus  we  have  a  melt- 
ing and  palpitating  color,  never  the  same  for  two  inches  to- 
gether, deepening  and  broadening  here  and  there  into 
intensity  of  perfect  azure,  then  drifted  and  dying  away 
through  every  tone  of  pure  pale  sky,  into  the  snow  white  of 
the  filmy  cloud.  Over  this  roll  the  determined  edges  of  the 
rain-clouds,  throwing  it  all  far  back,  as  a  retired  scene,  into 
§  23.  Absence  of  the  Upper  sky.  Of  this  effect  the  old  masters, 
work^^of  \he  oW  ^  remember,  have  taken  no  cognizance 

masters.  whatsoever  ;  all  with  them  is,  as  we  partially 

noticed  before,  either  white  cloud  or  pure  blue  :  they  have 
no  notion  of  any  double-dealing  or  middle  measures.  They 
bore  a  hole  in  the  sky,  and  let  you  up  into  a  pool  of  deep, 
stagnant  blue,  marked  off  by  the  clear  round  edges  of  im- 
perturbable, impenetrable  cloud  on  all  sides — beautiful  in 
positive  color,  but  totally  destitute  of  that  exquisite  grada- 
tion and  change,  that  fleeting,  panting,  hesitating  effort, 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


333 


with  which  the  first  glance  of  the  natural  sky  is  shed  through 
the  turbulence  of  the  earth-storm. 

They  have  some  excuse,  however,  for  not  attempting  this, 
in  the  nature  of  their  material,  as  one  accidental  dash  of  the 
brush  with  water-color  on  a  piece  of  wet  or  damp  paper,  will 
^  come  nearer  the  truth  and  transparency  of  this 
our  water  -  color  rain-blue  than  the  labor  of  a  day  in  oils  ;  and 

artists  in  its  ren-  . ,  i   i>  t   •  ^        p  r?  ^  i  i 

dering.  Use  of  the  purity  and  leiicity  ot  some  oi  the  careless. 
It  by  Turner.  melting  watcr-color  skies  of  Cox  and  Tayler  may 
well  make  us  fastidious  in  all  effects  of  this  kind.  It  is,  how- 
ever, only  in  the  drawings  of  Turner  that  we  have  this  perfect 
transparency  and  variation  of  blue,  given  in  association  with 
the  perfection  of  considered  form.  In  Tayler  and  Cox  the 
forms  are  always  partially  accidental  and  unconsidered,  often 
essentially  bad,  and  always  incomplete  ;  in  Turner  the  dash 
of  the  brush  is  as  completely  under  the  rule  of  thought  and 
feeling  as  its  slowest  line  ;  all  that  it  does  is  perfect,  and 
could  not  be  altered,  even  in  a  hairbreadth,  without  injury  ; 
in  addition  to  this,  peculiar  management  and  execution  are 
used  in  obtaining  quality  in  the  color  itself,  totally  different 
from  the  manipulation  of  any  other  artist  ;  and  none,  who 
have  ever  spent  so  much  as  one  hour  of  their  lives  over  his 
drawing,  can  forget  those  dim  passages  of  dreamy  blue,  barred 
and  severed  with  a  thousand  delicate  and  soft  and  snowy 
forms,  which,  gleaming  in  their  patience  of  hope  between  the 
troubled  rushing  of  the  racked  earth-cloud,  melt  farther  and 
farther  back  into  the  height  of  heaven,  until  the  eye  is  be- 
wildered and  the  heart  lost  in  the  intensity  of  their  peace.  I 
do  not  say  that  this  is  beautiful — I  do  not  say  it  is  ideal,  nor 
refined — I  only  ask  you  to  watch  for  the  first  opening  of  the 
clouds  after  the  next  south  rain,  and  tell  me  if  it  be  not 
true  ? 

The  Gosport  affords  us  an  instance  more  exquisite  even 
§  25.  Expression  than  the  passage  above  named  in  the  Coventry, 
i^nThe^GoSX  the  use  of  this  melting  and  dewy  blue,  ac- 
and  other  works,  companied  by  two  distances  of  rain-cloud,  one 
towering  over  the  horizon,  seen  blue  with  excessive  distance 
through  crystal  atmosphere  ;  the  other  breaking  overhead  in 


334 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


the  warm,  sulphurous  fragments  of  spray,  whose  loose  and 
shattering  transparency,  being  the  most  essential  characteris- 
tic of  the  near  rain-cloud,  is  precisely  that  which  the  old  mas- 
ters are  sure  to  contradict.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the  wreaths 
of  cloud?  in  the  Dido  and  ^neas  of  Gaspar  Poussin,  with  their 
unpleasant  edges  cut  as  hard  and  solid  and  opaque  and  smooth 
as  thick  black  paint  can  make  them,  rolled  up 

§  26.    Contrasted  ^  r 

with* Gaspar  Pous-  ovcr  ouc  another  like  a  dirty  sail  badly  reefed  : 

sin's    rain  -  cloud         i      i  .  i  i  i  i 

in  the  Dido  and  or  look  at  the  agreeable  transparency  and  va- 
riety  of  the  cloud-edge  where  it  cuts  the  Moun- 
tain in  N.  Poussin's  Phocion,  and  compare  this  with  th© 
wreaths  which  float  across  the  precipice  in  the  second  vignette 
in  Campbell,  or  which  gather  around  the  Ben  Lomond,  the 
white  rain  gleaming  beneath  their  dark  transparent  shadows  ; 
or  which  drift  up  along  the  flanks  of  the  wooded  hills,  called 
from  the  river  by  the  morning  light,  in  the  Oakhampton  ;  or 
which  island  the  crags  of  Snowdon  in  the  Llanberis,  or  melt 
along  the  Cumberland  hills,  while  Turner  leads  us  across  the 
sands  of  Morecambe  Bay.  This  last  drawing  deserves  espe- 
cial notice  ;  it  is  of  an  evening  in  spring,  when  the  south  rain 
has  ceased  at  sunset,  and  through  the  lulled  and  golden  air, 
the  confused  and  fantastic  mists  float  up  along  the  hollows  of 
the  mountains,  white  and  pUre,  the  resurrection  in  spirit  of 
the  new-fallen  rain,  catching  shadows  from  the  precipices, 
and  mocking  the  dark  peaks  with  their  own  mountain-like  but 
melting  forms  till  the  solid  mountains  seem  in  motion  like 
those  waves  of  cloud,  emerging  and  vanishing  as  the  weak 
wind  passes  by  their  summits  ;  while  the  blue,  level  night  ad- 
vances  along  the  sea,  and  the  surging  breakers  leap  up  to 
catch  the  last  light  from  the  path  of  tlie  sunset. 

I  need  not,  however,  insist  upon  Turner's  peculiar  power 
of  rendering  mist,  and  all  those  passages  of  intermediate  mys- 
tery, between  earth  and  air,  vs^hen  the  mountain  is  melting 
into  the  cloud,  or  the  horizon  into  the  twilierht : 

§27.      Turner^s   ,  ,  .  .       ,  .  .    ^  ' 

power  of  render-  bccausc  his  Supremacy  in  these  points  is  alto- 
ingmis.  gether  undisputed,  except  by  persons  to  whom 

it  would  be  impossible  to  prove  anything  which  did  not  fall 
under  the  form  of  a  Rule  of  Three.    Nothing  is  more  natural 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


335 


than  that  the  studied  form  and  color  of  this  great  artist  should 
be  little  understood,  because  they  require  for  the  full  percep- 
tion of  their  meaning  and  truth,  such  knowledge  and  such 
time  as  not  one  in  a  thousand  possesses,  or  can  bestow  ;  but 
yet  the  truth  of  them  for  that  very  reason  is  capable  of  dem- 
onstration, and  there  is  hope  of  our  being  able  to  make  it 
in  some  degree  felt  and  comprehended  even  by  those  to  whom 
it  is  now  a  dead  letter,  or  an  offence.  But  the  aerial  and 
§  28.  His  effects  of  misty  effects  of  landscape,  being  matters  of 
^at  i/not^aTonce  which  the  eye  should  be  simply  cognizant,  and 

caTn?more'^'be   without  eifort  of  thought,  aS  it  is  of  light,  mUSt, 

explained  or  rea-  ^yherc  they  are  exquisitely  rendered,  either  be 

soiled  on  than  na-  n  J  5  ^ 

ture  herself.  felt  at  once,  or  prove  that  degree  of  blindness 
and  bluntness  in  the  feelings  of  the  observer  which  there  is 
little  hope  of  ever  conquering.  Of  course  for  persons  w^ho 
have  never  seen  in  their  lives  a  cloud  vanishing  on  a  mountain- 
side, and  whose  conceptions  of  mist  or  vapor  are  limited  to 
ambiguous  outlines  of  spectral  hackney-coaches  and  bodiless 
lamp-posts,  discerned  through  a  brown  combination  of  sul- 
phur, soot,  and  gaslight,  there  is  yet  some  hope  ;  we  cannot, 
indeed,  tell  them  what  the  morning  mist  is  like  in  mountain 
air,  but  far  be  it  from  us  to  tell  them  that  they  are  incapable 
of  feeling  its  beauty  if  they  will  seek  it  for  themselves.  But 
if  you  have  ever  in  your  life  had  one  opportunity  with  your 
eyes  and  heart  open,  of  seeing  the  dew  rise  from  a  hill-pasture, 
or  the  storm  gather  on  a  sea-cliff,  and  if  you  have  yet  no  feel- 
ing for  the  glorious  passages  of  mingled  earth  and  heaven 
which  Turner  calls  up  before  you  into  breathing,  tangible 
being,  there  is  indeed  no  hope  for  your  apathy — art  will  never 
touch  you,  nor  nature  inform. 

It  would  be  utterly  absurd,  among  the  innumerable  pas- 
sages of  this  kind  given  throughout  his  works,  to  point  to 
one  as  more  characteristic  or  more  perfect  than  another.  The 
§29.  Variousin-  Simmer  Lake,  near  Askrig,  for  expression  of 
stances.  mist  pervaded  with  sunlight, — the  Lake  Lucerne, 

a  recent  and  unengraved  drawing,  for  the  recession  of  near 
mountain  form,  not  into  dark,  but  into  luminous  cloud,  the 
most  difficult  thing  to  do  in  art, — the  Harlech,  for  expres- 


336 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


sion  of  the  same  phenomena,  shown  over  vast  spaces  in  dis- 
tant ranges  of  hills,  the  Ehrenbreitstein,  a  recent  drawing, 
for  expression  of  mist,  rising  from  the  surface  of  water  at 
sunset, — and,  finally,  the  glorious  Oberwesel  and  Nemi,*  for 
passages  of  all  united,  may,  however,  be  named,  as  noble  in- 
stances, though  in  naming  five  works  I  insult  five  hundred. 

One  word  respecting  Turner's  more  violent  storms,  for  we 
have  hitherto  been  speaking  only  of  the  softer  rain-clouds, 
associated  with  gusty  tempest,  but  not  of  the  thunder-cloud 
„       „      ,    and  the  whirlwind.    If  there  be  anv  one  point 

§  30.    Turner's    ....  _.  i        "  i 

more  violent  ef-  in  which  cngravcrs  disgrace  themselves  more 

fects  of  tempest     ,         .  ,         .     .     .       ,     .  ,     .  />    t  i 

are  never  render-  than  in  another,  it  IS  111  their  rendering  oi  dark 
ed  by  engravers.  f  urious  storm.  It  appears  to  be  utterly  im- 
possible to  force  it  into  their  heads,  that  an  artist  does  7iot 
leave  his  color  with  a  sharp  edge  and  an  angular  form  by  ac- 
cident, or  that  they  may  have  the  pleasure  of  altering  it  and 
improving  upon  it  ;  and  equally  impossible  to  persuade  them 
that  energy  and  gloom  may  in  some  circum- 
tem  of  ^landscape  stanccs  be  arrived  at  without  any  extraordinary 

engraving.  t  ,  /»  •    i        t  p 

expenditure  oi  inko  i  am  aware  or  no  engraver 
of  the  present  day  whose  ideas  of  a  storm-cloud  are  not  com- 
prised under  two  heads,  roundness  and  blackness  ;  and,  in- 
deed, their  general  principles  of  translation  (as  may  be  dis- 
tinctly gathered  from  their  larger  works)  are  the  following  : 
1.  Where  the  drawing  is  gray,  make  the  paper  black.  2. 
Where  the  drawing  is  white,  cover  the  page  with  zigzag  lines. 
3.  Where  the  drawing  has  particularly  tender  tones,  cross- 
hatch  them.  4,  Where  any  outline  is  particularly  angular, 
make  it  round.  5.  Where  there  are  vertical  reflections  in 
water,  express  them  with  very  distinct  horizontal  lines.  G. 
Where  there  is  a  passage  of  particular  simplicity,  treat  it  in 
sections.  7.  Where  there  is  anything  intentionally  concealed, 
make  it  out.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  necessity  which  all  en- 
gravers impose  upon  themselves,  of  rigidly  observing  this 
code  of  general  laws,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  such 
pieces  of  work,  as  the  plates  of  Stonehenge  and  Winchelsea, 


*  In  the  possession  of  B.  G.  Windus,  Esq.,  of  Tottenham. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS, 


337 


can  ever  have  been  presented  to  the  public,  as  in  any  way 
resembling,  or  possessing  even  the  most  fanciful  relation  to 
§32  Thestoi-min  Turner  drawings  of  the  same  subjects.  The 
the  stonehenge.  original  of  the  Stonehenge  is  perhaps  the  stand- 
ard of  storm-drawing,  both  for  the  overwhelming  power 
and  gigantic  proportions  and  spaces  of  its  cloud-forms,  and 
for  the  tremendous  qualities  of  lurid  and  sulphurous  colors 
which  are  gained  in  them.  All  its  forms  are  marked  with 
violent  angles,  as  if  the  whole  muscular  energy — so  to  speak 
— of  the  cloud,  were  writhing  in  every  fold,  and  their  fantas- 
tic and  fiery  volumes  have  a  peculiar  horror — an  awful  life — 
shadowed  out  in  their  strange,  swift,  fearful  outlines,  which 
oppress  the  mind  more  than  even  the  threatening  of  their 
gigantic  gloom.  The  white  lightning,  not  as  it  is  drawn  by 
less  observant  or  less  capable  painters,  in  zigzag  fortifications, 
but  in  its  own  dreadful  irregularity  of  streaming  fire,  is 
brought  down,  not  merely  over  the  dark  clouds,  but  through 
the  full  light  of  an  illumined  opening  to  the  blue,  which  yet 
cannot  abate  the  brilliancy  of  its  white  line  ;  and  the  track 
of  the  last  flash  along  the  ground  is  fearfully  marked  by  the 
dog  howling  over  the  fallen  shepherd,  and  the  ewe  pressing 
her  head  upon  the  body  of  her  dead  lamb. 

I  have  not  space,  however,  to  enter  into  examination  of 
Turner's  storm-drawing  ;  I  can  only  warn  the  public  against 
supposing  that  its  effect  is  ever  rendered  by  engravers.  The 
§  33.  General  great  principles  of  Turner  are  angular  outline, 
effects*as%iven  vastness  and  energy  of  form,  infinity  of  grada- 
exp^e^sifn  ^^P^^  without  blackncss.    The  great 

of  falling  rain,  principles  of  the  engravers  (vide  Psestum,  in 
Rogers's  Italy,  and  the  Stonehenge,  above  alluded  to)  are 
rounded  outline,  no  edges,  want  of  character,  equality  of 
strength,  and  blackness  without  depth. 

I  have  scarcely,  I  see,  on  referring  to  what  I  have  written, 
sufficiently  insisted  on  Turner's  rendering  of  the  rsanj  fringe^ 
whether  in  distances,  admitting  or  concealing  more  or  less  of 
the  extended  plain,  as  in  the  Waterloo,  and  Richmond  (with 
the  girl  and  dog  in  the  foreground,)  or  as  in  the  Dunstaff- 
nage,  Glencoe,  St.  Michael's  Mount,  and  Slave  Ship,  not  reach- 
VoL.  I.— 22 


338 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


ing  the  earth,  but  suspended  in  waving  and  twisted  lines  from 
the  darkness  of  the  zenith.  But  I  have  no  time  for  farther 
development  of  particular  points  ;  I  must  defer  discussion  of 

them  until  we  take  up  each  picture  to  be  viewed 
lion  o/The^sec-  as  a  whole  ;  for  the  division  of  the  sky  which  I 

have  been  obliged  to  make,  in  order  to  render 
fully  understood  the  peculiarities  of  character  in  the  separate 
cloud  regions,  prevents  my  speaking  of  any  one  work  with 
justice  to  its  concentration  of  various  truth.  Be  it  always 
remembered  that  we  pretend  not,  at  present,  to  give  any  ac- 
count or  idea  of  the  sum  of  the  works  of  any  painter,  much 
less  of  the  universality  of  Turner's  ;  but  only  to  explain  in 
what  real  truth,  as  far  as  it  is  explicable,  consists,  and  to  il- 
lustrate it  by  those  pictures  in  which  it  most  distinctly  oc- 
curs, or  from  which  it  is  most  visibly  absent.  And  it  will 
only  be  in  the  full  and  separate  discussion  of  individual  works, 
when  we  are  acquainted  also  with  what  is  beautiful,  that  we 
shall  be  completely  able  to  prove  or  disprove  the  presence  of 
the  truth  of  nature. 

The  conclusion,  then,  to  which  w^e  are  led  by  our  present 
examination  of  the  truth  of  clouds,  is,  that  the  old  masters 
attempted  the  representation  of  only  one  among  the  thou- 
sands of  their  systems  of  scenery,  and  were  altogether  false 
in  the  little  they  attempted  ;  while  we  can  find  records  in 
modern  art  of  every  form  or  phenomenon  of  the  heavens, 
from  the  highest  film  that  glorifies  the  ether  to  the  wildest 
vapor  that  darkens  the  dust,  and  in  all  these  records  we  find 
the  most  clear  language  and  close  thought,  firm  words,  and 
true  message,  unstinted  fulness  and  unfailing  faith. 

And  indeed  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  conceive  how,  even  with- 
out such  laborious  investigation  as  we  have  gone  through, 
§35.  Sketch  of  a  ^"3^  P^^rson  Can  go  to  nature  for  a  single  day  or 
few  of  the  skies  hour,  whcu  she  is  rcallv  at  work  in  any  of  her 

of  nature,  taken  „        .  ,  . 

aR  a  whole,  com-  noblcr  sphercs  of  action,  and  yet  retain  respect 
workH  of  Turner  for  the  old  masters  ;  finding,  as  find  he  will,  that 
nihsten^.  *^Morn-  evcry  scenc  which  rises,  rests,  or  departs  before 

ingonthepiainB.    j^j^^  ^^^^^  ^j^^        ^  thoUSaud  gloricS  of  which 

|,hcre  is  not  one  shadow,  one  image,  one  trace  or  line,  in  any 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


339 


of  their  works  ;  but  which  will  illustrate  to  him,  at  every  new 
instant,  some  passage  which  he  had  not  before  understood  in 
the  high  works  of  modern  art.  Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some 
isolated  mountain  at  daybreak,  when  the  night  mists  first  rise 
from  off  the  plains,  and  watch  their  white  and  lake-like  fields 
as  they  float  in  level  bays  and  winding  gulfs  about  the 
islanded  summits  of  the  lower  hills,  untouched  yet  by  more 
than  dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet  than  a  windless  sea  under 
the  moon  of  midnight  ;  watch  when  the  first  sunbeam  is  sent 
upon  the  silver  channels,  how  the  foam  of  their  undulating 
surface  parts  and  passes  away  ;  and  down  under  their  depths, 
the  glittering  city  and  green  pasture  lie  like  Atlantis,  be- 
tween the  white  paths  of  winding  rivers  ;  the  flakes  of  light 
falling  every  moment  faster  and  broader  among  the  starry 
spires,  as  the  wreathed  surges  break  and  vanish  above  them, 
and  the  confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the  dark  hills  shorten 
their  gray  shadows  upon  the  plain.  Has  Claude  given  this  ? 
§  36.  Noon  with  Wait  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those 
gathering  storms,  scattered  mists  rallying  in  the  ravines,  and  float- 
ing up  towards  you,  along  the  winding  valleys,  till  they  couch 
in  quiet  masses,  iridescent  with  the  morning  light,*  upon  the 
broad  breasts  of  the  higher  hills,  whose  leagues  of  massy  un- 
dulation will  melt  back  and  back  into  that  robe  of  material 
light,  until  they  fade  away,  lost  in  its  lustre,  to  appear  again 
above,  in  the  serene  heaven,  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible 
dream,  foundationless  and  inaccessible,  their  very  bases  van- 
ishing in  the  unsubstantial  and  mocking  blue  of  the  deep  lake 
below. f  Has  Claude  given  this  ?  Wait  yet  a  little  longer, 
and  you  shall  see  those  mists  gather  themselves  into  white 
towers,  and  stand  like  fortresses  along  the  promontories,  massy 
and  motionless,  only  piled  with  every  instant  higher  and 

*  I  have  often  seen  the  white  thin,  morning  cloud,  edged  with  the 
seven  colors  of  the  prism.  I  am  not  aware  of  the  cause  of  this  phe- 
nomenon, for  ic  takes  place  not  when  we  stand  with  our  backs  to  the 
sun,  but  in  clouds  near  the  sun  itself,  irregularly  and  over  indefinite 
spaces,  sometimes  taking  place  in  the  body  of  the  cloud.  The  colors  are 
distinct  and  vivid,  but  have  a  kind  of  metallic  lustre  upon  them. 

f  Lake  Lucerne. 


340 


OF  TRUTH  OF  CLOUDS. 


higher  into  the  sky,*  and  casting  longer  shadows  athwart  the 
rocks  ;  and  out  of  the  pale  blue  of  the  horizon  you  will  see 
forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of  narrow,  dark,  pointed  va- 
pors, f  which  will  cover  the  sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their  gray 
network,  and  take  the  light  oif  the  landscape  with  an  eclipse 
which  will  stop  the  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  motion  of  the 
leaves  together  ;  and  then  you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of 
black  shadow  forming  under  them,  and  lurid  wreaths  create 
themselves,  you  know  not  how,  along  the  shoulders  of  the 
hills  ;  you  never  see  them  form,  but  when  you  look  back  to 
a  place  which  was  clear  an  instant  ago,  there  is  a  cloud  on  it, 
hanging  by  the  precipices,  as  a  hawk  pauses  over  his  prey.  J 
Has  Claude  given  this  ?  And  then  you  will  hear  the  sudden 
rush  of  the  awakened  wind,  and  you  will  see  those  watch- 
towers  of  vapor  swept  away  from  their  foundations,  and  wav- 
ing curtains  of  opaque  rain  let  down  to  the  valleys,  swinging 
from  the  burdened  clouds  in  black,  bending  fringes,§  or  pac- 
ing in  pale  columns  along  the  lake  level,  grazing  its  surface 
§  37  Sunset  in  '^^^^  f oam  as  they  go.  And  then,  as  the  sun 
tempest.  Serene  sinks,  vou  shall  See  the  storm  drift  for  an  instant 

midnight,  . 

from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their  broad  sides  smok- 
ing, and  loaded  yet  with  snow-white  torn,  steam-like  rags  of 
capricious  vapor,  now  gone,  now  gathered  again  ;  ||  while  the 
smouldering  sun,  seeming  not  far  away,  but  burning  like  a 
red-hot  ball  beside  you,  and  as  if  you  could  reach  it,  plunges 
through  the  rushing  wind  and  rolling  cloud  with  headlong 
fall,  as  if  it  meant  to  rise  no  more,  dyeing  all  the  air  about  it 
with  blood.^  Has  Claude  given  this  ?  And  then  you  shall 
hear  the  fainting  tempest  die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night,  and, 
you  shall  see  a  green  halo  kindling  on  the  summit  of  the 
eastern  hills,**  brighter — brighter  yet,  till  the  large  white  cir- 


*  St.  Maurice  (Rogers's  Italy). 

f  Vignette,  the  great  St.  Bernard. 

X  Vignette  of  the  Andes. 

§  St.  MichaeFs  Mount — England  series. 

II  Illustration  to  the  Antiquary.  Goldeau,  a  recent  drawing  of  the 
highest  orfler. 

If  Vignette  to  Campbell's  Last  Man.  **  Caerlaverock. 


EFFECTS  OF  LIGHT. 


34] 


cle  of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted  up  among  the  barred  clouds,* 
step  by  step,  line  by  line  ;  star  after  star  she  quenches  with 
her  kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead  an  army  of  pale, 
penetrable,  fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven,  to  give  light  upon 
the  earth,  which  move  together,  hand  in  hand,  company  by 
company,  troop  by  troop,  so  measured  in  their  unity  of  mo- 
tion, that  the  whole  heaven  seems  to  roll  with  them,  and  the 
earth  to  reel  under  them.  Ask  Claude,  or  his  brethren,  for  that. 

And  then  wait  yet  for  one  hour,  until  the  east 
oa  tht^ips^"^  again  becomes  purple,f  and  the  heaving  moun- 
tains, rolling  against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves 
of  a  wild  sea,  are  drowned  one  by  one  in  the  glory  of  its  burn- 
ing ;  watch  the  white  glaciers  blaze  in  their  winding  paths 
about  the  mountains,  like  mighty  serpents  with  scales  of  fire  ; 
watch  the  columnar  peaks  of  solitary  snow,  kindling  down- 
wards, chasm  by  chasm,  each  in  itself  a  new  morning  ;  th^ir 
long  avalanches  cast  down  in  keen  streams  brighter  than  the 
lightning,  sending  each  his  tribute  of  driven  snow,  like  altar- 
smoke,  up  to  the  heaven  ;  the  rose-light  of  their  silent  domes 
flushing  that  heaven  about  them  and  above  them,  piercing 
with  purer  light  through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud,  cast- 
ing a  new  glory  on  every  wreath  as  it  passes  by,  until  the 
whole  heaven — one  scarlet  canopy, — is  interwoven  with  a  roof 
of  waving  flame,  and  tossing,  vault  beyond  vault,  as  with  the 
drifted  wings  of  many  companies  of  angels  ;  and  then,  when 
you  can  look  no  more  for  gladness,  and  when  you  are  bowed 
down  with  fear  and  love  of  the  Maker  and  Doer  of  this,  tell 
me  who  has  best  delivered  this  His  message  unto  men  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

EFFECTS  OF  LIGHT  RENDERED  BY  MODERN  ART. 

I  HAVE  before  given  my  reasons  (Sect.  H.  Chap.  HI.)  for 
not  wishing  at  present  to  enter  upon  the  discussion  of  par- 
ticular effects  of  light.    Not  only  are  we  incapable  of  rightly 

*  St.  Denis. 

f  Alps  at  Daybreak  (Rogers's  Poems  :)  Delphi,  and  various  vignettes. 


34:2 


EFFECTS  OF  LIGHT 


viewing  them,  or  reasoning  upon  them,  until  we  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  principles  of  the  beautiful  ;  but,  as  1  dis- 
§1.  Reasons  for  tinctly  limited  myself,  in  the  present  portion  of 
^rt^^n'a  mfng^,'  work,  to  the  examination  of  general  truths, 
i^^the  pardcu:  would  be  out  of  pkcc  to  take  cognizance  of 
ifjht  ^  tendered  particular  phases  of  light,  even  if  it  were  pos- 
by  Turner.  sible  to  do  SO,  before  we  have  some  more  definite 
knowledge  of  the  material  objects  which  they  illustrate.  1 
shall  therefore,  at  present,  merely  set  down  a  rough  cata- 
logue of  the  effects  of  light  at  different  hours  of  the  day, 
which  Turner  has  represented  :  naming  a  picture  or  two,  as 
an  example  of  each,  which  we  will  hereafter  take  up  one  by 
one,  and  consider  the  physical  science  and  the  feeling  to- 
on rr  another.    Arid  I  do  this,  in  the  hope  that,  in  the 

§2.  Hopes  of  the    ^  ^  ,    '  . 

author  for  assist-  meantime,  some  admirer  of  the  old  masters  will 

ance  in  the  fut-    ,       ,  .  , 

ure  investigation  be  kmd  enough  to  Select  from  the  works  of  any 
one  of  them,  a  series  of  examples  of  the  same  ef- 
fects, and  to  give  me  a  reference  to  the  pictures,  so  that  I 
may  be  able  to  compare  each  with  each  ;  for,  as  my  limited 
knowledge  of  the  works  of  Claude  or  Poussin  does  not  sup- 
ply me  with  the  requisite  variety  of  effect,  I  shall  be  grate- 
ful for  assistance. 

The  following  list,  of  course,  does  not  name  the  hundredth 
part  of  the  effects  of  light  given  by  Turner  ;  it  only  names 
those  which  are  distinctly  and  markedly  separate  from  each 
other,  and  representative  each  of  an  entire  class.  Ten  or 
twelve  examples,  often  many  more,  might  be  given  of  each  ; 
every  one  of  which  would  display  the  effects  of  the  same  hour 
and  light,  modified  by  different  circumstances  of  weather,  sit- 
uation, and  character  of  objects  subjected  to  them,  and  espe- 
cially by  the  management  of  the  sky  ;  but  it  will  be  gener- 
ally sufficient  for  our  purpose  to  examine  thoroughly  one 
good  example  of  each. 

The  prefixed  letters  express  the  direction  of  the  light.  F. 
front  light  (the  sun  in  the  centre,  or  near  the  top  of  the  pict- 
ure ;)  L.  lateral  light,  the  sun  out  of  the  picture  on  the  right 
or  left  of  the  spectator  ;  L.  F.  the  light  partly  lateral,  partly 
fronting  the  spectator,  as  when  he  is  looking  south,  with  the 


EENDERED  BY  MOBEllN  AItT, 


343 


sun  in  the  south-west  ;  L.  B.  light  partly  lateral,  partly  be- 
hind the  spectator,  as  when  he  is  looking  north,  with  the  sun 
in  the  south-west. 

MORNING. 


L  An  hour  before  sunrise  in  winter.  Violent 

storm,  with  rain,  on  the  sea.  Light- 
hpuses  seen  through  it. 

F  An  hour  before  sunrise.    Serene  sky, 

with  light  clouds.  Dawn  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

L  Ten  minutes  before  sunrise.  Violent 

storm.  Torchlight. 
F  Sunrise.    Sun  only  half  above  the  hori- 
zon.   Clear  sky,  with  light  cirri. 

F  Sun  just  disengaged  from  horizon.  Misty, 

with  light  cirri. 

F  Sun  a  quarter  of  an  hour  risen.  Sky 

covered  with  scarlet  clouds. 
,  Serene  sky.    Suu  emerging  from  a  bank 
of  cloud  on  horizon,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  risen. 
. .  Same  hour.    Light  mists  in  flakes  on 

hillsides.    Clear  air. 
. .  Light  flying  rain-clouds  gathering  in  val- 
leys.   Same  hour. 
. .  Same  hour.   A  night  storm  rising  off  the 
mountains.    Dead  calm. 

L  Sun  half  an  hour  risen.    Cloudless  sky. 

L  Same  hour.    Light  mists  lyiug  in  the 

valleys. 

F  Same  hour.    Bright  cirri.    Sun  dimly 

seen  through  battle  smoke,  with  con- 
flagration. 

L  Sun  an  hour  risen.  Cloudless  and  clear. 


L.F.. 


L.F. 


L.F. 


L.B. 


NAMES  OF  PICTURES. 

Lowestoffe,  Suffolk. 

Vignette  to  Voyage  of 
Columbus. 

Fowey  Harbor. 

Vignette    to  Human 

Life. 
Alps  at  Daybreak. 

Castle  Upnor. 

Orford,  Suffolk. 

Skiddaw. 

Oakhampton. 

Lake  of  Geneva. 

Beaugency. 
Kirby  Lonsdale. 

Hohenlinden. 


Buckfastleigh. 


NOON  AND  AFTERNOON. 


L.B. .  .Midday.   Dead  calm,  with  heat.  Cloud- 
less. 

L  Same  hour.    Serene  and  bright,  with 

streaky  clouds. 
L  Same  hour.  Serene,  with  multitudes  of 

the  high  cirrus. 


Corinth. 

Lantern  at  St.  Cloud. 

Shylock,    and  other 
Venices. 


344 


EFFECTS  OF  LIGHT 


EFFECTS. 

L  Bright  sun,  with  light  wind  and  clouds. 

F  Two  o'clock.  Clouds  gathering  for  rain, 

with  heat. 

F  Rain  beginning,  with  light  clouds  and 

wind. 

L  Soft  rain,  with  heat. 

L.F. .  .Great  heat.    Thun.Jer  gathering. 

L  Thunder  broaking  down,  after  intense 

heat,  with  furious  wind. 

L  Violent  rain  and  wind,  but  cool. 

L.F. .  .Furious  storm,  with  thunder. 

L.B. .  .Thunder  retiring,  with  rainbow.  Dead 
calm,  with  heat. 

L  About  three  o'clock,  summer.    Air  very 

cool  and  clear.  Exhausted  thunder- 
clouds low  on  hills. 

F  Descending    sunbeams    through  soft 

clouds,  after  rain. 

L  Afternoon,  very  clear,  after  rain.  A  few 

clouds  still  on  horizon.    Dead  calm. 

F  Afternoon  of  cloudless  day,  with  heat. 


NAMES  OP  PICTURES, 

Richmond,  Middlesex. 
Warwick.  Blenheim. 

Piacenza. 

Caldron  Snout  Fall. 

Malvern. 

Winchelsea. 

Llamberis,  Coventry,  &c 
Stonehenge,  Psestum, 

&c. 
Nottingham. 

Bingen. 

Carew  Castle. 
Saltash. 

Mercury    and  Argus. 
Oberwesel.  Nemi. 


EVENING. 

L  An  hour  before  sunset.  Cloudless. 

F  Half  an  hour  before  sunset.  Light  clouds. 

Misty  air. 

F  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  sunset. 

Mists  rising.    Light  cirri. 

L.F. . .  Ten  minutes  before  sunset.  Quite  cloud- 
less. 

F  Same  hour.  Tumultuous  spray  of  illu- 
mined rain-cloud. 

F  Five  minutes  before  sunset.  Sky  covered 

with  illumined  cirri. 

L.B.  ..Same  hour.  Serene  sky.  Full  moon 
rising. 

F  Sun  setting.    Detached  light  cirri  and 

clear  air. 

L  Same  hour.    Cloudless.    New  moon. 

L.F. .  .Same  hour.  Heavy  storm  clouds.  Moon- 
rise. 


Trematon  Castle. 
Lake   Albano.  Flor- 
ence. 
Dater  Hora  Quieti. 

Durham. 

Solomon's  Pools.  Slave- 
ship. 

Temeraire.  ^  Napoleon. 

Various  vignettes. 
Kenil  worth. 

Amboise. 

Troyes. 

First  vignette.  Pleas' 
ures  of  Memory. 


BENDERED  BY  MODERN  ART.  345 


EFFECTS. 

L.B. . .  Sun  just  set.    Sky  covered  with  clouds. 

New  moon  setting. 
L.B.  ..Sun  five  minutes  set.    Strong  twilight, 

with  storm  clouds.    Full  moonrise. 
L.B.  ..Same  hour.    Seiene,  with  light  clouds. 
L.B...  Same  hour.    Serene.    New  moon. 

L.B. .  .Sun  a  quarter  of  an  hour  set.  Cloudless. 

L.P. .  .Sun  half  an  hour  set.    Light  cirri. 

F  Same  hour.    Dead  calm  at  sea.  New 

moon  and  evening  star. 
F  Sun  three  quarters  of  an  hour  set.  Moon 

struggling  through  storm  clouds,  over 

heavy  sea. 

NIGHT. 

F  An  hour  after  sunset.  No  moon.  Torch- 
light. 

F  Same  hour.    Moon  rising.    Fire  from 

furnaces. 

L.F.  ..Same  hour,  with  storm  clouds.  Moon 
rising. 

L  Same  hour,  with  light  of  rockets  and  fire. 

F  Midnight.   Moonless,  with  light-houses. 

Same  hour,  with  fire-light. 

F  Ditto.  Full  moon.  Clear  air,  with  deli- 
cate clouds.  Light-houses. 

F  Ditto,  with  conflagration,  battle  smoke, 

and  storm. 

F  Ditto.  Moonlight  through  mist.  Build- 
ings illuminated  in  interior. 

F  Ditto.  Pull  moon  with  halo.  Light  rain- 
clouds. 

F  Full  moon.  Perfectly  serene.  Sky  cov- 
ered with  white  cirri. 


NAMES  OF  PICTURES. 

Caudebec. 

Wilderness  of  Engedi, 

Assos. 
Montjan. 

Pyramid  of  Caius  Ces- 
tius. 

Chateau  de  Blois. 

Clairmont. 

Cowes. 

Folkestone. 


St.  Julien.  Tours. 

Dudley. 

Nantes. 

Juliet  and  her  Nurse. 
Calais. 

Burning  of  Parliament 

Houses. 
Towers  of  the  Hev6. 

Waterloo. 

Vignette.  St.  Herbert's 

Isle. 
St.  Denis. 

Alnwick.  Vignette  of  Ri- 
alto,  &  Bridge  of  Sighs. 


Modern  Painters 


VOLUME  II. 

CONTAINING 

Part  II.— III. 

OF  TRUTH  AND  TEEOBETIG  FACULTIES 


JOHN  RUSKEN,  LL.D., 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  STONES  OF  VENICE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


"  Accuse  me  not 
Of  arrogance,  .... 
If,  having  walked  with  Nature, 
And  offered,  far  as  frailty  would  allow, 
My  heart  a  daily  sacrifice  to  Truth, 
I  now  affirm  of  Nature  and  of  Truth, 
Whom  I  have  served,  that  their  Divinity 
Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  men. 
Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  soul 
Be  of  a  thousand  faculties  composed. 
And  twice  ten  thousand  mterests,  do  yet  prize 
This  soul,  and  the  transcendent  universe 
No  more  than  as  a  mirror  that  reflects 
To  proud  Self-love  her  own  mtelligence." 

Wordsworth 


NEW  YORK: 
JOHN    B.    ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 
1885. 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


THE   LANDSCAPE   ARTISTS  OF  ENGLAND 

THIS  WORK 
is  respectfully  dedicated 
by  their  sincere  admirer 

The  Author 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PART  IL— (Continued.) 
OF  TRUTH. 


SECTION  IV. 
OF  TRUTH  OF  EARTH. 
CHAPTER  I.— Of  General  Structure. 

PAGE 

§  1.  First  laws  of  the  organization  of  the  earth,  and  their  im- 
portance in  art  ,   21 

§  2.  The  slight  attention  ordinarily  paid  to  them.  Their  care- 
ful study  by  modern  artists   22 

§  3.  General  structure  of  the  earth.    The  hills  are  its  action, 

the  plains  its  rest   23 

§  4.  Mountains  come  out  from  underneath  the  plains,  and  are 

their  support   23 

§  5.  Structure  of  the  plains  themselves.    Their  perfect  level, 

when  deposited  by  quiet  water   24 

§  6.  Illustrated  by  Turner's  Marengo   25 

§  7.  General  divisions  of  formation  resulting  from  this  ar- 
rangement.   Plan  of  investigation   25 

CHAPTER  II.— Of  the  Central  Mountains. 

§  1.  Similar  character  of  the  central  peaks  in  all  parts  of  the 

world   26 

§  2.  Their  arrangements  in  pyramids  or  wedges,  divided  by 

vertical  fissures   26 

^  3.  Causing  groups  of  rock  resembling  an  artichoke  or  rose . .  27 


2 


SYJSrOFSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


§  4.  The  faithful  statement  of  these  facts  by  Turner  in  his 

Alps  at  Daybreak   27 

g  5.  Vignette  of  the  Andes  and  others   28 

§  6.  Necessary  distance,  and  consequent  aerial  effect  on  all 

such  mountains   29 

§  7.  Total  want  of  any  rendering  of  their  phenomena  in 

ancient  art   29 

§  8.  Character  of  the  representations  of  Alps  in  the  distances 

of  Claude   30 

§  9.  Their  total  want  of  magnitude  and  aerial  distance   30 

§  10.  And  violation  of  specific  form   31 

g  11.  Even  in  his  best  works   32 

§  12.  Farther  illustration  of  the  distant  character  of  moun- 
tain chains   33 

§  13.  Their  excessive  appearance  of  transparency   33 

§  14.  Illustrated  from  the  works  of  Turner  and  Stanfield.  The 

Borromean  Islands  of  the  latter   34 

§  15.  Turner's  Arena   34 

§  16.  Extreme  distance  of  large  objects  always  characterized 

by  very  sharp  outline  „   35 

§  17.  Want  of  this  decision  in  Claude   36 

§  18.  The  perpetual  rendering  of  it  by  Turner   37 

§  19.  Effects  of  snow,  how  imperfectly  studied   37 

§  20.  General  principles  of  its  forms  on  the  Alps   39 

§  21.  Average  paintings  of  Switzerland.    Its  real  spirit  has 

scarcely  yet  been  caught   '41 

CHAPTER  III.— Of  the  Inferior  Mountains. 

§   1.  The  inferior  mountains  are  distinguished  from  the  cen- 
tral by  being  divided  into  beds.   42 

§  2.  Farther  division  of  these  beds  by  joints   42 

§  3.  And  by  lines  of  lamination   43 

§  4.  Variety  and  seeming  uncertainty  under  which  these  laws 

are  manifested   43 

§  5.  The  perfect  expression  of  them  in  Turner's  Loch  Coriskin  44 

^   0.  Glencoe  and  other  works   45 

§  7.  Especially  the  Mount  Lebanon   46 

§  8.  Compared  with  the  work  of  Salvator.   46 

§   9.  And  of  Poupsin   47 

§  10.  Effects  of  external  influence  on  mountain  form   48 

§  11.  The  gentle  convexity  caused  by  aqueous  erosion   49 

§  12.  And  the  effect  of  the  action  of  torrents   50 

§  13.  The  exceeding  simplicity  of  contour  caused  by  these  in- 
fluences  ,   51 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  3 

PAOB 

§  14.  And  multiplicity  of  feature   51 

§  15.  Both  utterly  neglected  in  ancient  art   52 

§  16.  The  fidelity  of  treatment  in  Turner's  Daphne  and  Leu- 

cippus   52 

§17.  And  in  the  Avalanche  and  Inundation   53 

§  18.  The  rarity  among  secondary  hills  of  steep  slopes  or  high 

precipices   54 

§  19.  And  consequent  expression  of  horizontal  distance  in  their 

ascent   55 

§  20.  Full  statement  of  all  these  facts  in  various  works  of 

Turner, — Caudebec,  etc   55 

§  21.  The  use  of  considering  geological  truths   56 

§  22.  Expression  of  retiring  surface  by  Turner  contrasted  with 

the  work  of  Claude   57 

§  23.  The  same  moderation  of  slope  in  the  contours  of  his 

higher  hills   57 

g  24.  The  peculiar  difficulty  of  investigating  the  more  essen- 
tial truths  of  hill  outline   58 

§  25.  Works  of  other  modern  artists.    Clarkson  Stanfield   59 

§  26.  Importance  of  particular  and  individaal  truth  in  hill 

drawing   59 

§  27.  Works  of  Copley  Fielding.    His  hill  feeling   60 

§  28.  Works  of  J.  D.  Harding  and  others   61 


CHAPTER  IV.— Of  the  Foreground. 


§  1. 

What  rocka  were  the  chief  components  of  ancient  land- 

62 

§  2. 

Salvator's  limestones.    The  real  characters  of  the  rock. 

Its  fractures,  and  obtuseness  of  angles  

62 

§  3. 

Salvator's  acute  angles  caused  by  the  meeting  of  con- 

63 

§  4. 

Peculiar  distinctness  of  light  and  shade  in  the  rocks  of 

64 

§  5. 
§  6. 

Peculiar  confusion  of  both  in  the  rocks  of  Salvator  

And  total  want  of  any  expression  of  hardness  or  brittle- 

64 

65 

§  7. 

Instances  in  particular  pictures  

65 

§  8. 

Compared  with  the  works  of  Stanfield  

65 

§  9. 

Their  absolute  opposition  in  every  particular  

66 

§10. 

The  rocks  of  J.  D.  Harding  

67 

§11- 

68. 

§12. 

68 

§13. 

69 

4 


SYJ^OFSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


§  14.  Importance  of  these  minor  parts  and  points  . .  *  *   69 

§  15.  The  observance  of  them  is  the  real  distinction  between 

the  master  and  the  novice   70 

§  16.  The  Ground  of  Cuyp   70 

§17.  And  of  Claude   71 

g  18.  The  entire  weakness  and  childishness  of  the  latter   71 

§19.  Compared  with  the  work  of  Turner   72 

§  20.  General  features  of  Turner's  foreground   72 

§  21.  Geological  structure  of  his  rocks  in  the  Fall  of  the  Tees  73 

§  22.  Their  convex  surfaces  and  fractured  edges   73 

§  23.  And  perfect  unity     74 

§  24.  Various  parts  whose  history  is  told  us  by  the  details  of 

the  drawing.   74 

§  25.  Beautiful  instance  of  an  exception  to  general  rules  in 

the  Llanthony   75 

§  26.  Turner's  drawing  of  detached  blocks  of  weathered  stone  76 

§  27.  And  of  complicated  foreground   77 

§  28.  And  of  loose  soil   77 

§  29.  The  unison  of  all  in  the  ideal  foregrounds  of  the  Academy 

pictures   78 

§  30.  And  the  great  lesson  to  be  received  from  all   78 


SECTION  V. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  WATER. 

CHAPTER  I.— Of  Water,  as  Painted  by  the  Ancients. 

§  1.  Sketch  of  the  functions  and  infinite  agency  of  water. ...  80 
§  2.  The  ease  with  which  a  common  representation  of  it  may 

be  given.    The  impossibility  of  a  faithful  one   81 

§  3.  Difficulty  of  properly  dividing  the  subject   81 

§  4.  Inaccuracy  of  study  of  water-effect  among  all  painters. ,  81 

§  5.  Difficulty  of  treating  this  part  of  the  subject.   83 

§  6.  General  laws  which  regulate  the  phenomena  of  water. 

First,  the  imperfection  of  its  reflective  surface   85 

§  7.  The  inherent  hue  of  water  modifies  dark  reflections,  and 

does  not  affect  bright  ones   85 

§  8.  Water  takes  no  shadow   87 

§  9.  Modification  of  dark  reflections  by  shadow   88 

§  10.  Examples  on  the  water  of  the  Rhone   89 

§  11.  Effect  of  ripple  on  distant  water   91 

§  12.  Elongation  of  reflections  by  moving  water   91 

§  13.  Effect  of  rippled  water  on  horizontal  and  inclined  images  93 


SYl^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  '  6 

PAGE 

§  14.  To  what  extent  reflection  is  visible  from  above   93 

§  15.  Deflection  of  images  on  agitated  water   93 

§  16.  Necessity  of  watchfulness  as  well  as  of  science.  Licenses, 

how  taken  by  great  men  i  03 

§  17.  Various  licenses  or  errors  in  water  painting  of  Claude, 

Cuyp,  Vandevelde  *   95 

§  18.  And  Canaletto   97 

§  19.  Why  unpardonable   99 

§20.  The  Dutch  painters  of  sea   100 

§  21.  Ruysdael,  Claude,  and  Salvator   101 

§  22.  Nicholas  Poussin.   102 

§  23.  Venetians  and  Florentines.    Conclusion   103 

CHAPTER  II.— Of  Water,  as  Painted  by  the  Moderns. 

§   1.  General  power  of  the  moderns  in  painting  quiet  water. 

The  lakes  of  Fielding   104 

§  2.  The  calm  rivers  of  De  Wint,  J.  Holland,  &c  104 

§   3.  The  character  of  bright  and  violent  falling  water   105 

§  4.  As  given  by  Nesfield  ,  105 

§  5.  The  admirable  water-drawing  of  J.  D.  Harding  106 

§  6.  His  color  ;  and  painting  of  sea   107 

§  7.  The  sea  of  Copley  Fielding.    Its  exceeding  grace  and 

rapidity   107 

§  8.  Its  high  aim  at  character   108 

§  9.  But  deficiency  in  the  requisite  quality  of  grays  108 

§  10.  Variety  of  the  grays  of  nature   109 

§11.  Works  of  Stanfield.  His  perfect  knowledge  and  power.  109 
§  12.  But  want  of  feeling.    General  sum  of  truth  presented 

by  modern  art   110 

CHAPTER  III  — Of  Water,  as  Painted  by  Turner. 

§  1.  The  difficulty  of  giving  surface  to  smooth  water   Ill 

§  2.  Is  dependent  on  the  structure  of  the  eye,  and  the  focus 

by  which  the  reflected  rays  are  perceived   Ill 

§   3.  Morbid  clearness  occasioned  in  painting  of  water  by  dis- 
tinctness of  reflections   112 

§  4.  How  avoided  by  Turner   113 

§  5.  All  reflections  on  distant  water  are  distinct  114 

§  6.  The  error  of  Vandevelde     114 

§  7.  Difference  in  arrangement  of  parts  between  the  reflected 

object  and  its  image    115 

§  8.  Illustrated  from  the  works  of  Turner   116 

§  9.  The  boldness  and  judgment  shown  in  the  observance  of  it .  117 


6 


STJSrOPSTS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

§  10.  The  texture  of  surface  in  Turner's  painting  of  calm 

water   117 

§  11.  Its  united  qualities   118 

§  12.  Relation  of  various  circumstances  of  past  agitation,  etc., 

by  the  most  trifling  incidents,  as  in  the  Cowes   119 

§  13.  In  scenes  on  the  Loire  and  Seine   120 

§  14.  Expression  of  contrary  waves  caused  by  recoil  from  shore  121 

§  15.  Various  other  instances   121 

§  16.  Turner's  painting  of  distant  expanses  of  water.  Calm, 

interrupted  by  ripple   122 

§  17.  And  ripple,  crossed  by  sunshine   122 

§  18.  His  drawing  of  distant  rivers   123 

§  19.  And  of  surface  associated  with  mist   124 

§  20.  His  drawing  of  falling  water,  with  peculiar  expression 

of  weight   124 

§  21.  The  abandonment  and  plunge  of  great  cataracts.  How 

given  by  him   125 

§  22.  Difference  in  the  action  of  water,  when  continuous  and 
when  interrupted.    The  interrupted  stream  fills  the 

hollows  of  its  bed   126 

§  23.  But  the  continuous  stream  takes  the  shape  of  its  bed. .  127 

§  24.  Its  exquisite  curved  lines   127 

§25.  Turner's  careful  choice  of  the  historical  truth   128 

§  26.  His  exquisite  drawing  of  the  continuous  torrent  in  the 

Llanthony  Abbey   128 

§  27.  And  of  the  interrupted  torrent  in  the  Mercury  and  Argus.  129 

§  28.  Various  cases,   130 

§29.  Sea  painting.    Impossibility  of  truly  representiog  foam.  130 

§  30.  Character  of  shore-breakers,  also  inexpressible   132 

§  31.  Their  effect,  how  injured  when  seen  from  the  shore  133 

§  32.  Turner's  expression  of  heavy  rolling  sea   138 

§  33.  With  peculiar  expression  of  weight   134 

§  34.  Peculiar  action  of  recoiling  waves   135 

§  35.  And  of  the  stroke  of  a  breaker  on  the  shore   135 

§  36.  General  character  of  sea  on  a  rocky  coast  given  by  Tur- 
ner in  the  Land's  End   136 

§  37.  Open  seas  of  Turner's  earlier  times   137 

§  38.  Effect  of  sea  after  prolonged  storm   138 

§  39.  Turner's  noblest  work,  the  painting  of  the  deep  open  sea 

in  the  Slave  Ship   140 

§  40.  Its  united  excellences  and  perfection  as  a  whole  141 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


7 


SECTION  VI. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. — CONCLUSION. 

CHAPTER  I.— Of  Truth  of  Vegetation. 

PAGE 

§  1.  Frequent  occurrence  of  foliage  in  the  works  of  the  old 

masters   142 

§  2.  Laws  common  to  all  forest  trees.  Their  branches  do  not 

taper,  but  only  divide   143 

§  3.  Appearance  of  tapering  caused  by  frequent  buds   143 

§  4.  And  care  of  nature  to  conceal  the  parallelism   144 

§   5.  The  degree  of  tapering  which  may  be  represented  as  con- 
tinuous  144 

§  6.  The  trees  of  Gaspar  Poussin   144 

§   7.  And  of  the  Italian  school  generally,  defy  this  law   145 

§   8.  The  truth,  as  it  is  given  by  J.  D.  Harding   145 

§   9.  Boughs,  in  consequence  of  this  law,  must  diminish  where 

they  divide.    Those'of  the  old  masters  of  ten  do  not .  146 
§  10.  Boughs  must  multiply  as  they  diminish.    Those  of  the 

old  masters  do  not    147 

§  11.  Bough-drawing  of  Salvator   148 

§  12.  All  these  errors  especially  shown  in  Claude's  sketches, 

and  concentrated  in  a  work  of  Gr.  Poussin's   149 

§  13.  Impossibility  of  the  angles  of  boughs  being  taken  out  of 

them  by  wind   150 

§  14.  Bough-drawing  of  Titian   151 

§15.  Bough-drawing  of  Turner   152 

g  16.  Leafage.    Its  variety  and  symmetry   153 

§  17.  Perfect  regularity  of  Poussin  154 

§  18.  Exceeding  intricacy  of  nature's  foliage  154 

§  19.  How  contradicted  by  the  tree -patterns  of  G.  Poussin. . . .  155 

§  20.  How  followed  by  Creswick   156 

§  21.  Perfect  unity  in  nature's  foliage   * , .  157 

§  22.  Total  want  of  it  in  Both  and  Hobbima   157 

§  23.  How  rendered  by  Turner   158 

§  24.  The  near  leafage  of  Claude.    His  middle  distances  are 

good   158 

§  25.  Universal  termination  of  trees  in  symmetrical  curves.  . .  159 
§  26.  Altogether  unobserved  by  the  old  masters    Always  given 

by  Turner   160 

§  27.  Foliage  painting  cm  the  Continent   161 

§  28.  Foliage  of  J.  D.  Harding.    Its  deficiencies   162 

§  29.  His  brilliancy  of  execution  too  manifest   162 


8 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


§  30.  His  bough-drawing  and  choice  of  form   163 

§  31.  Local  color,  how  far  expressible  in  black  and  white,  and 

with  what  advantage   164 

§  32.  Opposition  between  great  manner  and  great  knowledge  165 

§  33.  Foliage  of  Cox,  Fielding,  and  Cattermole   166 

§  34.  Hunt  and  Creswick.  Green,  how  to  be  rendered  ex- 
pressive of  light,  and  offensive  if  otherwise.   166 

§  35.  Conclusion.  Works  of  J.  Linnell  and  S.  Palmer  167 

CHAPTER  II.— General  Remarks  respecting  the  Truth  op 
Turner. 

§  1.  No  necessity  of  entering  into  discussion  of  architectural 

truth   168 

§  2.  Extreme  difficulty  of  illustrating  or  explaining  the  high- 
est truth   169 

§  3.  The  positive  rank  of  Turner  is  in  no  degree  shown  in  the 

foregoing  pages,  but  only  his  relative  rank   170 

§  4.  The  exceeding  refinement  of  his  truth   170 

§  5.  There  is  nothing  in  his  works  which  can  be  enjoyed  with- 
out knowledge   171 

§  6.  And  nothing  which  knowledge  will  not  enable  us  to  en- 
joy 171 

§  7.  His  former  rank  and  progress   172 

§  8.  Standing  of  his  present  works.    Their  mystery  is  the 

consequence  of  their  fulness   172 


CHAPTER  III.— Conclusion. — Modern  Art  and  Modern  Criti- 
cism. 

§  1.  The  entire  prominence  hitherto  given  to  the  works  of 


one  artist  caused  only  by  our  not  being  able  to  take 
cognizance  of  c/iarac^er   173 

§  2.  The  feelings  of  different  artists  are  incapable  of  full  com- 
parison  174 

§  3.  But  the  fidelity  and  truth  of  each  are  capable  of  real 

comparison  ,   174 

§  4.  Especially  because  they  are  equally  manifested  in  the 

treatment  of  all  subjects   175 

§  5.  No  man  draws  one  thing  well,  if  he  can  draw  nothing 

else   175 

§  6.  General  conclusions  to  be  derived  from  our  past  investi- 
gation   176 

§  7.  Truth,  a  standard  of  all  excellence   176 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


9 


PAGE 


§  8.  Modem  criticism.    Changefulness  of  public  taste   177 

§  9.  Yet  associated  with  a  certain  degree  of  judgment  177 

§  10.  Duty  of  the  press   178 

§  11.  Qualifications  necessary  for  discharging  it   178 

§  12.  General  incapability  of  modern  critics   178 

§13.  And  inconsistency  with  themselves   179 

§  14.  How  the  press  may  really  advance  the  cause  of  art  179 

§  15.  Morbid  fondness  at  the  present  day  for  unfinished  works  180 

§16.  By  which  the  public  defraud  themselves  180 

§  17.  And  in  pandering  to  which,  artists  ruin  themselves  ....  180 

§  18.  Necessity  of  finishing  works  of  art  perfectly   181 

§  19.  Sketches  not  sufficiently  encouraged   182 

§  20.  Brilliancy  of  execution  or  efforts  at  invention  not  to  be 

tolerated  in  young  artists  182 

§21.  The  duty  and  after  privileges  of  all  students   182 

§  22.  Necessity  among  our  greater  artists  of  more  singleness 

of  aim   183 

§  23.  What  should  be  their  general  aim  185 

§  24.  Duty  of  the  press  with  respect  to  the  works  of  Turner. .  187 


PAET  III. 
OF  IDEAS  OF  BEAUTY. 

SECTION  L 

OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


CHAPTER  I.— Of  the  Rank  and  Relations  of  the  Theo- 
retic Faculty. 

§  1.  With  what  care  the  subject  is  to  be  approached   190 

§  2.  And  of  what  importance  considered   191 

§  3.  The  doubtful  force  of  the  term    utility"   192 

§  4.  Its  proper  sense   193 

§  5.  How  falsely  applied  in  these  times   193 

§  6.  The  evil  consequences  of  such  interpretation.  How  con- 
nected with  national  power   194 

§   7.  How  to  be  averted   195 

§  8.  Division  of  the  pursuits  of  men  into  subservient  and  ob- 
jective  198 


10 


SYI^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

§  9.  Their  relative  dignities  199 

§  10.  How  reversed  through  erring  notions  of  the  contempla- 
tive and  imaginative  faculties  199 

§  11.  Object  of  the  present  section   200 

CHAPTER  II.— Op  the  Theoretic  Faculty  as  concerned 
WITH  Pleasures  of  Sense. 

§  1.  Explanation  of  the  term     theoretic"  201 

§  2.  Of  the  differences  of  rank  in  pleasures  of  sense  201 

§  3.  Use  of  the  terms  Temperate  and  Intemperate   203 

§  4.  Right  use  of  the  term    intemperate"   203 

§  5.  Grounds  of  inferiority  in  the  pleasures  which  are  sub- 
jects of  intemperance   204 

§  6.  Evidence  of  higher  rank  in  pleasures  of  sight  and  hear- 
ing  204 

§  7.  How  the  lower  pleasures  may  be  elevated  in  rank  205 

§  8.  Ideas  of  beauty  how  essentially  moral  206 

§  9.  How  degraded  by  heartless  reception   207 

§  10.  How  exalted  by  affection   207 

CHAPTER  III. — Of  Accuracy  and  Inaccuracy  in  Impres- 
sions OF  Sense. 

§  1.  By  what  test  is  the  health  of  the  perceptive  faculty  to 

be  determined?   208 

§  2.  And  in  what  sense  may  the  terms  Right  and  Wrong  be 

attached  to  its  conclusions  ?  209 

§  3.  What  power  we  have  over  impressions  of  sense   210 

§  4.  Depends  on  acuteness  of  attention  211 

§   5.  Ultimate  conclusions  universal   211 

§  6.  What  duty  is  attached  to  this  power  over  impressions  of 

sense   213 

§  7.  How  rewarded   213 

§  8.  Especially  with  respect  to  ideas  of  beauty   218 

§  9.  Errors  induced  by  the  power  of  habit  214 

§  10.  The  necessity  of  submission  in  early  stages  of  judgment  214 

§  11.  The  large  scope  of  matured  judgment  215 

§  12.  How  distinguishable  from  false  taste  215 

§  13.  The  danger  of  a  spirit  of  choice   216 

§  14.  And  criminality  ,   216 

§  15.  How  certain  conclusions  respecting  beauty  are  by  reason 

demonstrable   217 

§  16.  With  what  liabilities  to  error   218 

§17.  The   term    "beauty"   how  limitable  in  the  outset. 

Divided  into  typical  and  vital   218 


snsropsis  of  contents.  11 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  IV. — Op  False  Opinions  held  concerning  Beauty. 

§  1.  Of  the  false  opinion  that  truth  is  beauty,  and  vice  versa  220 
§   2.  Of  the  false  opinion  that  beauty  is  usefulness.  Compare 

Chap.  xii.  §  5   221 

§   3.  Of  the  false  opinion  that  beauty  results  from  custom. 

Compare  Chap.  vi.  §  1  221 

§  4.  The  twofold  operation  of  custom.    It  deadens  sensation, 

but  confirms  affection   221 

§  5.  But  never  either  creates  or  destroys  the  essence  of  beauty  222 

§  6.  Instances   2J^2 

§   7.  Of  the  false  opinion  that  beauty  depends  on  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas   223 

§  8.  Association.    Is,  1st,  rational.    It  is  of  no  efficiency  as  a 

cause  of  beauty   224 

§  9.  Association  accidental.    The  extent  of  its  influence. . . .  224 

§  10.  The  dignity  of  its  function   225 

§  11.  How  it  is  connected  with  impressions  of  beauty  226 

§  12.  And  what  caution  it  renders  necessary  in  the  examina- 
tion of  them   227 

CHAPTER  v.— Of  Typical  Beauty  :— First,  op  Infinity,  or 
THE  Type  op  Divine  Incomprehensibility. 

§  1.  Impossibility  of  adequately  treating  the  subject  228 

§  2.  With  what  simplicity  of  feeling  to  be  approached   228 

§  3.  The  child  instinct  respecting  space   230 

§  4.  Continued  in  after  life   230 

§  5.  Whereto  this  instinct  is  traceable   231 

§   6.  Infinity  how  necessary  in  art   232 

§  7.  Conditions  of  its  necessity   232 

,§  8.  And  connected  analogies  233 

§  9.  How  the  dignity  of  treatment  is  proportioned  to  the  ex- 
pression of  infinity   234 

§  10.  Examples  among  the  Southern  schools   234 

§  11.  Among  the  Venetians   235 

§  12.  Among  the  painters  of  landscape  ,  235 

§  13.  Other  modes  in  which  the  power  of  infinity  is  felt   236 

§  14.  The  beauty  of  curvature    236 

§  15.  How  constant  in  external  nature   237 

§  16.  The  beauty  of  gradation   238 

§  17.  How  found  in  Nature     238 

§  18.  How  necessary  in  Art   239 

§  19.  Infinity  not  rightly  implied  by  vastness  240 


12 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  VI.— Of  Unity,  of  the  Type  of  the  Divine  Com- 

PHEHENSIVENESS. 

§   1.  The  general  conception  of  divine  Unity   240 

§   2.  The  glory  of  all  things  is  their  Unity   241 

§   3.  The  several  kinds  of  unity.     Subjectional.  Original. 

Of  sequence,  and  of  membership.   242 

§   4.  Unity  of  membership.    How  secured   243 

§   5.  Variety.    Why  required   243 

§   6.  Change,  and  its  influence  on  beauty   244 

§  7.  The  love  of  change.    How  morbid  and  evil   245 

§  8.  The  conducing  of  variety  towards  unity  of  subjection  . .  246 

§   9.  And  towards  unity  of  sequence   248 

§10.  The  nature  of  proportion.    1st,  of  apparent  proportion.  248 

§  11.  The  vahie  of  apparent  proportion  in  curvature   251 

§12.  How  by  nature  obtained   252 

§  13.  Apparent  proportion  in  melodies  of  line   253 

§  14.  Error  of  Burke  in  this  matter   253 

§  15.  Constructive  proportion.    Its  influence  in  plants   254 

§  16.  And  animals   255 

§  17.  Summary   256 

CHAPTER  VIL— Of  Repose,  or  the  Type  of  Divine  Perma- 
nence. 

§   1.  Universal  feeling  respecting  the  necessity  of  repose  in  art. 

Its  sources   256 

§   2.  Repose,  how  expressed  in  matter.   257 

§  3.  The  necessity  to  repose  of  an  implied  energy  258 

§  4.  Mental  repose,  how  noble   258 

§   5.  Its  universal  value  as  a  test  of  art  259 

§   6.  Instances  in  the  Laocoon  and  Theseus  260 

§  7.  And  in  altar  tombs  J262 

CHAPTER  VIII. — Of  Symmetry,  or  the  Type  of  Divine  Jus- 
tice. 

§   1.  Symmetry,  what  and  how  found  in  organic  nature  263 

§   2.  How  necessary  in  art   264 

§  3.  To  what  its  agreeableness  is  referable.    Various  in- 
stances 264 

§  4.  Especially  in  religious  art   265 

CHAPTER  IX.— Of  Purity,  or  the  Type  of  Divine  Energy. 

§   1.  The  influence  of  light  as  a  sacred  symbol   266 

§  2.  The  idea,  of  purit^y  connected  with  it.   266 


SYJV0P8IS  OF  CONTENTS. 


13 


PAGE 

§  3.  Originally  derived  from  conditions  of  matter  267 

§  4.  Associated  ideas  adding  to  the  power  of  the  impression. 

Influence  of  clearness  267 

§  5.  Perfect  beauty  of  surface,  in  what  consisting  268 

§  6.  Purity  only  metaphorically  a  type  of  sinlessness   269 

§  7.  Energy,  how  expressed  by  purity  of  matter  , . .  270 

§       And  of  color   270 

§  9.  Spirituality,  how  so  expressed  271 

CHAPTER  X.— Of  Moderation,  or  the  Type  of  Government 
BY  Law. 

§  1.  Meaning  of  the  terms  Chasteness  and  Refinement   272 

§   2.  How  referable  to  temporary  fashions   272 

§  3.  How  to  the  perception  of  completion   272 

§  4.  Finish,  by  great  masters  esteemed  essential   272 

§  5.  Moderation,  its  nature  and  value   274 

§  6.  It  is  the  girdle  of  beauty   275 

§   7.  How  found  in  natural  curves  and  colors   275 

§  8.  How  difficult  of  attainment,  yet  essential  to  all  good. . .  276 

CHAPTER  XI. — General  Inferences  respecting  Typical 
Beauty. 

§  1.  The  subject  incompletely  treated,  yet  admitting  of  gen- 
eral conclusions   277 

§  2.  Typical  beauty  not  created  for  man's  sake  277 

§  3.  But  degrees  of  it  for  his  sake  admitted  278 

§  4.  What  encouragement  hence  to  be  received  278 

CHAPTER  XII. — Of  Vital  Beauty.    First,  as  Relative. 

§  1.  Transition  from  typical  to  vital  Beauty   2T9 

§  2.  The  perfection  of  the  theoretic  faculty  as  concerned  with 

vital  beauty,  is  charity    281 

§  3.  Only  with  respect  to  plants,  less  affection  than  sym- 
pathy   282 

§  4.  Which  is  proportioned  to  the  appearance  of  energy  in  the 

plants   283 

§  5-  This  sympathy  is  unselfish,  and  does  not  regard  utility . .  284 

§  6.  Especially  with  respect  to  animals   285 

§  7.  And  it  is  destroyed  by  evidences  of  mechanism  286 

§   8.  The  second  perfection  of  the  theoretic  faculty  as  con- 
cerned with  life  is  justice  of  moral  judgment  287 

§   9.  How  impeded  , . ,  288 

§  10.  The  influence  of  moral  signs  in  expression  288 


14 


SYNOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


§  11.  As  also  in  plants   290 

§12.  Recapitulation  291 

CHAPTER  XIIL— Op  Vital  Beauty.    Secondly,  as  GtENeric. 
§  1.  The  beauty  of  fulfilment  of  appointed  function  in  every 

animal  292 

§  2.  The  two  senses  of  the  word    ideal.'*   Either  it  refers  to 

action  of  the  imagination    '  293 

§  3.  Or  to  perfection  of  type    294 

§  4.  This  last  sense  how  inaccurate,  yet  to  be  retained   295  ^ 

§   5.  Of  Ideal  form.    First,  in  the  lower  animals   295 

g  6.  In  what  consistent   296 

g  7.  Ideal  form  in  vegetables   296 

§   8.  The  difference  of  position  between  plants  and  animals.  297 

§   9.  Admits  of  variety  in  the  ideal  of  the  former   297 

§  10.  Ideal  form  in  vegetables  destroyed  by  cultivation.  298 

§  11.  Instance  in  the  Soldanella  and  Ranunculus   299 

§  12.  The  beauty  of  repose  and  felicity,  how  consistent  with 

such  ideal  300 

§13.  The  ideality  of  Art   301 

§  14.  How  connected  with  the  imaginative  faculties   301 

§  15.  Ideality,  how  belonging  to  ages  and  conditions  301 

CHAPTER  XIV.— Op  Vital  Beauty.    Thirdly,  in  Man. 

§   1.  Condition  of  the  human  creature  entirely  different  from 

that  of  the  lower  animals   302 

§  2.  What  room  here  for  idealization   303 

§   3.  How  the  conception  of  the  bodily  ideal  is  reached. . . .  304 
§   4.  Modifications  of  the  bodily  ideal  owing  to  influence  of 

mind.    First,  of  intellect  304 

§   5.  Secondly,  of  the  moral  feelings  305 

§   6.  What  beauty  is  bestowed  by  them  306 

§  7.  How  the  soul  culture  interferes  harmfully  with  the  bodily 

ideal   307 

§  8.  The  inconsistency  among  the  effects  of  the  mental  vir- 
tues on  the  form   307 

§  9.  Is  a  sign  of  God's  kind  purpose  towards  the  race   308 

§  10.  Consequent  separation  and  difference  of  ideals  309 

§  11.  The  effects  of  the  Adamite  curse  are  to  be  distinguished 

from  signs  of  its  immediate  activity   310 

§  12.  Which  latter  only  are  to  be  banished  from  ideal  form. . .  310 

§  13.  Ideal  form  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  portraiture   311 

§  14.  Instances  among  the  greater  of  the  ideal  Masters   312 

§  15.  Evil  results  of  opposite  practice  in  modern  times  313 

§  16.  The  right  use  of  the  model  ^   313 


STWOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


15 


•PAGE 

§  17.  Ideal  form  to  be  reached  only  by  love. .  „  313 

§  18.  Practical  principles  deducible   314 

§  19.  Expressions  chiefly  destructive  of  ideal  character.  1st, 

Pride   314 

§  20.  Portraiture  ancient  and  modem   315 

§21.  Secondly,  Sensuality   316 

§  22.  How  connected  with  impurity  of  color   316 

§  23.  And  prevented  by  its  splendor   317 

§  24.  Or  by  severity  of  drawing    317 

§  25.  Degrees  of  descent  in  this  respect :  Rubens,  Correggio, 

and  Guido  318 

§  26.  And  modern  art   318 

§  27.  Thirdly,  ferocity  and  fear.    The  latter  how  to  be  distin- 
guished from  awe  319 

§  28.  Holy  fear,  how  distinct  from  human  terror   319 

§  29.  Ferocity  is  joined  always  with  fear.    Its  unpardonable- 

ness   320 

§  30.  Such  expressions  how  sought  by  painters  powerless  and 

impious.   320 

§  31.  Of  passion  generally   322 

§  33.  It  is  never  to  be  for  itself  exhibited — at  least  on  the  face.  322 
§  33.  Recapitulation   324 

CHAPTER  XV. — General  Conclusions  RESPECTING  the  Theo- 
retic Faculty. 
§   1.  There  are  no  sources  of  the  emotion  of  beauty  more  than 

those  found  in  things  visible   325 

§  2.  What  imperfection  exists  in  visible  things.    How  in  a  sort 

by  imagination  removable   326 

§  3.  Which  however  affects  not  our  present  conclusions  ....  327 
§  4.  The  four  sources  from  which  the  pleasure  of  beauty  is 

derived  are  all  divine  327 

§  5.  What  objections  may  be  made  to  this  conclusion  327 

§   6.  Typical  beauty  may  be  sesthetically  pursued.  Instances.  328 

§  7.  How  interrupted  by  false  feeling   329 

§  8.  Greatness  and  truth  are  sometimes  by  the  Deity  sustained 

and  spoken  in  and  through  evil  men  330 

§  9.  The  second  objection  arising  from  the  coldness  of  Chris- 
tian men  to  external  beauty  331 

§  10.  Reasons  for  this  coldness  in  the  anxieties  of  the  world. 

These  anxieties  overwrought  and  criminal   332 

§  11.  Evil  consequences  of  such  coldness   333 

§  12.  Theoria  the  service  of  Heaven   333 


16 


SYJ^OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


SECTION  II. 
OF  THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY. 
CHAPTER  I. — Of  the  Three  Fokms  of  Imagination. 

PAGE 

§   1.  A  partial  examination  only  of  the  imagination  is  to  be 

attempted   334 

§  2.  The  works  of  the  metaphysicians  how  nugatory  with  re- 
spect to  this  faculty   335 

§  3.  The  definition  of  D.  Stewart,  how  inadequate  336 

§   4.  This  instance  nugatory  ,   337 

§  5.  Various  instances   337 

§   6.  The  three  operations  of  the  imagination.  Penetrative, 

associative,  contemplative  339 

CHAPTER  II.— Of  Imagination  Associative. 

§   1.  Of  simple  conception  339 

§  2.  How  connected  with  verbal  knowledge.   340 

§   3.  How  used  in  composition  ,  341 

§  4.  Characteristics  of  composition  342 

§  5.  What  powers  are  implied  by  it.    The  first  of  the  three 

functions  of  fancy  342 

§  6.  Imagination  not  yet  manifested   343 

§  7.  Imagination  is  the  correlative  conception  of  imperfect 

component  parts   344 

§  8.  Material  analogy  with  imagination  344 

§  9.  The  grasp  and  dignity  of  imagination  345 

§  10.  Its  limits   346 

§  11.  How  manifested  in  treatment  of  uncertain  relations.  Its 

deficiency  illustrated   347 

§  12.  Laws  of  art,  the  safeguard  of  the  unimaginative  348 

§  13.  Are  by  the  imaginative  painter  despised.    Tests  of  im- 
agination  349 

§  14.  The  monotony  of  unimaginative  treatment   349 

§  15.  Imagmation  never  repeats  itself   350 

§  16.  Relation  of  the  imaginative  faculty  to  the  theoretic  351 

§17.  Modification  of  its  manifestation   351 

§  18.  rnstances  of  -absence  of  imagination. — Claude,  Gaspar 

Poussin  352 

§  19.  Its  presence. — Salvator,  Nicolo  Poussin,  Titian,  Tintoret.  352 
§  20.  And  Turner   353 


SYJS'OPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  17 

PAGE 

§  21.  The  due  function  of  Associative  imagination  with  re- 
spect to  nature  354 

§  22.  The  sign  of  imaginative  work  is  its  appearance  of  abso- 
lute truth   355 

CHAPTER  III.— Op  Imagination  Penetrative. 

§  1.  Imagination  penetrative  is  concerned  not  with  the  com- 
bining but  apprehending  of  things   356 

§  2.  Milton's  and  Dante's  description  of  flame   357 

§  3.  The  imagination  seizes  always  by  the  innermost  point. .  358 

§  4.  It  acts  intuitively  and  without  reasoning   358 

§  5.  Signs  of  it  in  language   359 

§  6.  Absence  of  imagination,  how  shown  359 

§  7.  Distinction  between  imagination  and  fancy  360 

§  8.  Fancy  how  involved  with  imagination   362 

§  9.  Fancy  is  never  serious  363 

§  10.  Want  of  seriousness  the  bar  to  high  art  at  the  present 

time  363 

§  11.  Imagination  is  quiet ;  fancy,  restless   364 

§12.  The  detailing  operation  of  fancy   364 

§  13.  And  suggestive,  of  the  imagination  365 

§  14.  This  suggest! veness  how  opposed  to  vacancy  366 

§  15.  Imagination  addresses  itself  to  imagination   367 

Instances  from  the  works  of  Tintoret  368 

§  16.  The  entombment   368 

§17.  The  Annunciation  ,   369 

§  18.  The  Baptism  of  Christ.  Its  treatment  by  various  painters  370 

§  19.  By  Tintoret  ,   371 

§20.  The  Crucifixion   372 

§  21.  The  Massacre  of  Innocents  374 

§  22.  Various  works  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco   375 

§  23.  The  Last  Judgment.    How  treated  by  various  painters.  376 

.§  24.  By  Tintoret  377 

§  25.  The  Imaginative  verity,  how  distinguished  from  realism.  378 

§  26.  The  imagination  how  manifested  in  sculpture  379 

§  27.  Bandinelli,  Canova,  Mino  da  Fiesole   379 

§  28.  Michael  Angelo    380 

§  29.  Recapitulation.  The  perfect  function  of  the  imagina- 
tion is  the  intuitive  perception  of  ultimate  truth ....  383 

§  30.  Imagination,  how  vulgarly  understood  385 

§  31.  How  its  cultivation  is  dependent  on  the  moral  feelings. .  386 

§  32.  On  independence  of  mind  386 

§  33.  And  on  habitual  reference  to  nature  386 

Vol.  II.— 2 


18 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  IV.— Of  Imagination  Contemplative. 

PAGB 


g   1.  Imagination  contemplative  is  not  part  of  the  essence,  but 

only  a  habit  or  mode  of  the  faculty  387 

§  2.  The  ambiguity  of  conception   388 

§  3.  Is  not  in  itself  capable  of  adding  to  the  charm  of  fair 

things   388 

§  4.  But  gives  to  the  imagination  its  regardant  power  over 

them   389 

§  5.  The  third  office  of  fancy  distinguished  from  imagination 

contemplative   390 

§  6.  Various  instances   393 

§   7.  Morbid  or  nervous  fancy  396 

§  8.  The  action  of  contemplative  imagination  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pressed by  art    396 

§   9.  Except  under  narrow  limits. — 1st.    Abstract  rendering 

of  form  without  color  397 

§10.  Of  color  without  form   398 

§11.  Or  of  both  without  texture  398 

§  12.  Abstraction  or  typical  representation  of  animal  form  . . ,  399 

§  13.  Either  when  it  is  symbolically  used   400 

§  14.  Or  in  architectural  decoration   401 

§  15.  Exception  in  delicate  and  superimposed  ornament.  402 

§16.  Abstraction  necessary  from  imperfection  of  materials. . .  402 
§  17.  Abstractions  of  things  capable  of  varied  accident  are  not 

imaginative  403 

§  18.  Yet  sometimes  valuable   403 

§  19.  Exaggeration.    Its  laws  and  limits.    First,  in  scale  of 

representation   404 

§  20.  Secondly,  of  things  capable  of  variety  of  scale  405 

§  21,  Thirdly,  necessary  in  exp;:ession  of  characteristic  features 

on  diminished  scale ...  .  406 

§  22.  Recapitulation   407 

CHAPTER  v.— Of  the  Superhuman  Ideal. 

§  1.  The  subject  is  not  to  be  here  treated  in  detail  407 

§   2.  The  conceivable  modes  of  manifestation  of  Spiritual 

Beings  are  four   408 

§  3.  And  these  are  in  or  through  creature  forms  familiar  to  us  408 
§   4.  Supernatural  character  may  be  impressed  on  these  either 
by  phenomena  inconsistent  with  their  common  nature 

(compare  Chap.  iv.  §  16)   409 

§  5.  Or  by  inherent  Dignity   409 

§  6.  let.    Of  the  expression  of  inspiration  409 


SYJSrOPSIS  OF  CONTENTS.  19 

PAGE 

§  7.  No  representation  of  that  which  is  more  than  creature  is 

possible  410 

§  8.  riupernatural  character  expressed  by  modification  of  ac- 
cessories  413 

§  9.  Landscape  of  the  religious  painters.    Its  character  is 

eminently  symmetrical   412 

§  10.  Landscape  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli  413 

§  11.  Landscape  of  Perugino  and  Raffaelle   414 

§  12.  Such  Landscape  is  not  to  be  imitated   414 

§  13.  Color,  and  Decoration.    Their  use  in  representations  of 

the  Supernatural   415 

§  14.  Decoration  so  used  must  be  generic   416 

§  15.  And  color  pure   416 

§  16.  Ideal  form  of  the  body  itself,  of  what  variety  susceptible.  417 

§  17.  Anatomical  development  how  far  admissible   417 

§  18.  Symmetry.    How  valuable   418 

§  19.  The  influence  of  Greek  art,  how  dangerous  418 

§  20.  Its  scope,  how  limited  419 

§  21.  Conclusion  420 

Addenda  421 


MODERN  PAINTERS. 


PART  II.— (Continued.) 
OF  TRUTH. 


OF  TEUTH  OF  EAETH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  GENERAL  STRUCTURE. 

By  truth  of  earth,  we  mean  the  faithful  representation  of 
the  facts  and  forms  of  the  bare  ground,  considered  as  en- 
tirely divested  of  vegetation,  through  whatever  disguise,  or 
_  .  ^.  ^ ,      .  under  whatever  modification  the  clothinor  of  the 

§  1.  First  laws  of  ^  ^  ^ 

the  organization  landscape  may  occasion.    Ground  is  to  the  land- 

of  the  earth,  and  ^  .  i      i  i  it* 

their  importance  scape  painter  what  the  naked  human  body  is  to 
the  historical.  The  growth  of  vegetation,  the 
action  of  water,  and  even  of  clouds  upon  it  and  around  it, 
are  so  far  subject  and  subordinate  to  its  forms,  as  the  folds 
of  the  dress  and  the  fall  of  the  hair  are  to  the  modulation  of 
the  animal  anatomy.  Nor  is  this  anatomy  always  so  con- 
cealed, but  in  all  sublime  compositions,  whether  of  nature  or 
art,  it  must  be  seen  in  its  naked  purity.  The  laws  of  the 
organization  of  the  earth  are  distinct  and  fixed  as  those  of 


22 


OF  GENERAL  STRUCTURE. 


the  animal  frame,  simpler  and  broader,  but  equally  authori- 
tative and  inviolable.  Their  results  may  be  arrived  at  with- 
out knowledge  of  the  interior  mechanism  ;  but  for  that  very 
reason  ignorance  of  them  is  the  more  disgraceful,  and  vio- 
lation of  them  more  unpardonable.  They  are  in  the  land- 
scape the  foundation  of  all  other  truths — the  most  necessary, 
therefore,  even  if  they  were  not  in  themselves  attractive  ; 
but  they  are  as  beautiful  as  they  are  essential,  and  every 
abandonment  of  them  by  the  artist  must  end  in  deformity  as 
it  begins  in  falsehood. 

That  such  abandonment  is  constant  and  total  in  the  works 
of  the  old  masters,  has  escaped  detection,  only  because  of 
persons  generally  cognizant  of  art,  few  have  spent  time 
enough  in  hill  countries  to  perceive  the  certainty  of  the  laws 
§  2.  The  slight  of  hill  anatomy  ;  and  because  few,  even  of  those 
attention^^_  ord^  ^j^^  posscss  such  Opportunities,  ever  think  of 
carSui  stiidy^  by  ^^^^  common  earth  beneath  their  feet,  as  any- 
modern  artists,  thing  possessing  specific  form,  or  governed  by 
steadfast  principles.  That  such  abandonment  should  have 
taken  place  cannot  be  surprising,  after  what  we  have  seen  of 
their  fidelity  to  skies.  Those  artists  who,  day  after  day, 
could  so  falsely  represent  what  was  forever  before  their  eyes, 
when  it  was  to  be  one  of  the  most  important  and  attractive 
parts  of  their  picture,  can  scarcely  be  expected  to  give  with 
truth  what  they  could  see  only  partially  and  at  intervals,  and 
what  was  only  to  be  in  their  picture  a  blue  line  in  the  hori- 
zon, or  a  bright  spot  under  the  feet  of  their  figures. 

That  such  should  be  all  the  space  allotted  by  the  old  land- 
scape painters  to  the  most  magnificent  phenomena  of  nature  ; 
that  the  only  traces  of  those  Apennines,  which  in  Claude's 
walks  along  the  brow  of  the  Pincian,  forever  bounded  his 
horizon  with  their  azure  wall,  should,  in  his  pictures,  be  a 
cold  white  outline  in  the  extreme  of  his  tame  distance  ;  and 
that  Salvator's  sojourns  among  their  fastnesses  should  only 
have  taught  him  to  shelter  his  banditti  with  such  paltry  mor- 
sels of  crag  as  an  Alpine  stream  would  toss  down  before  it 
like  a  foam-globe  ;  though  it  may  indeed  excite  our  surprise, 
will,  perhaps,  when  we  have  seen  how  these  slight  passages 


OF  GENERAL  STRUCTURE, 


23 


are  executed,  be  rather  a  subject  of  congratulation  than  of 
regret.  It  might,  indeed,  have  shortened  our  labor  in  the 
investisration  of  mountain  truth,  had  not  modern  artists  been 
so  vast,  comprehensive,  and  multitudinous  in  their  mountain 
drawings,  as  to  compel  us,  in  order  to  form  the  slightest  esti- 
mate of  their  knowledge,  to  enter  into  some  examination  of 
every  variety  of  hill  scenery.  We  shall  first  gain  some  gen- 
eral notion  of  the  broad  organization  of  large  masses,  and 
then  take  those  masses  to  pieces,  until  we  come  down  to  the 
crumbling  soil  of  the  foreground. 

Mountains  are,  to  the  rest  of  the  body  of  the  earth,  what 
p  „    ^  ,  violent  muscular  action  is  to  the  body  of  man. 

§3.    General  ,  ^ 

structure  of  the  The  muscles  and  tendons  of  its  anatomy  are,  in 

earth.  The  hills  .  •  i  i 

are  its  action,  the  the  mountain,  brought  out  with  fierce  and  con- 

plains  its  rest,  ,  .  p  ^^      p  •  •  i 

vulsive  energy,  lull  oi  expression,  passion,  ana 
strength  ;  the  plains  and  the  lower  hills  are  the  repose  and 
the  effortless  motion  of  the  frame,  when  its  muscles  lie  dor- 
mant and  concealed  beneath  the  lines  of  its  beauty,  yet  rul- 
ing those  lines  in  their  every  undulation.  This,  then,  is  the 
first  grand  principle  of  the  truth  of  the  earth.  The  spirit 
of  the  hills  is  action  ;  that  of  the  lowlands,  repose  ;  and  be- 
tween these  there  is  to  be  found  every  variety  of  motion  and 
of  rest  ;  from  the  inactive  plain,  sleeping  like  the  firmament, 
with  cities  for  stars,  to  the  fiery  peaks,  which,  with  heaving 
bosoms  and  exulting  limbs,  with  the  clouds  drifting  like  hair 
from  their  bright  foreheads,  lift  up  their  Titan  hands  to 
Heaven,  saying,     I  live  forever  ! 

But  there  is  this  difference  between  the  action  of  the 
earth,  and  that  of  a  living  creature,  that  while  the  exerted 
limb  marks  its  bones  and  tendons  through  the  flesh,  the  ex- 
«  .   „    .  .     cited  earth  casts  off  the  flesh  altos^ether,  and  its 

§  4.    Mountains  ^  '  ^ 

come  out  from  bones  come  out  from  beneath.    Mountains  are 

underneath  the 

plains,  and  are  the  bones  of  the  earth,  their  highest  peaks  are 

their  support.        .  /»•  i-i* 

invariably  those  parts  of  its  anatomy  which  m 
the  plains  lie  buried  under  five  and  twenty  thousand  feet  of 
solid  thickness  of  superincumbent  soil,  and  which  spring  up 
in  the  mountain  ranges  in  vast  pyramids  or  wedges,  flinging 
their  garment  of  earth  away  from  them  on  each  side.  The 


24 


OF  GENEBAL  STRUCTURE, 


masses  of  the  lower  hills  are  laid  over  and  against  their  sides, 
like  the  masses  of  lateral  masonry  against  the  skeleton  arch 
of  an  unfinished  bridge,  except  that  they  slope  up  to  and 
lean  against  the  central  ridge  :  and,  finally,  upon  the  slopes 
of  these  lower  hills  are  strewed  the  level  beds  of  sprinkled 
gravel,  sand,  and  clay,  which  form  the  extent  of  the  cham- 
paign. Here  then  is  another  grand  principle  of  the  truth  of 
earth,  that  the  mountains  must  come  from  under  all,  and  be 
the  support  of  all  ;  and  that  everything  also  must  be  laid  in 
their  arms,  heap  above  heap,  the  plains  being  the  uppermost. 
Opposed  to  this  truth  is  every  appearance  of  the  hills  being 
laid  upon  the  plains,  or  built  upon  them.  Nor  is  this  a  truth 
only  of  the  earth  on  a  large  scale,  for  every  minor  rock  (in 
position)  comes  out  from  the  soil  about  it  as  an  island  out  of 
the  sea,  lifting  the  earth  near  it  like  waves  beating  on  its 
sides. 

Such  being  the  structure  of  the  framework  of  the  earth,  it 
is  next  to  be  remembered  that  all  soil  whatsoever,  wherever 
it  is  accumulated  in  greater  quantity  than  is  sufficient  to 
nourish  the  moss  of  the  wallflower,  has  been  so,  either  by  the 
direct  transporting  agency  of  water,  or  under  the  guiding 
§  5.  structure  of  influence  and  power  of  water.  All  plains  capa- 
eeives^^^T^h^e ir  Cultivation  are  deposits  from  some  kind 

perfect  level,  Qf   water — some   from   swift  and  tremendous 

when  deposited 

by  quiet  water.  Currents,  leaving  their  soil  in  sweeping  banks 
and  furrowed  ridges — others,  and  this  is  in  mountain  dis- 
tricts almost  invariably  the  case,  by  slow  deposit  from  a 
quiet  lake  in  the  mountain  hollow,  which  has  been  gradually 
filled  by  the  soil  carried  into  it  by  streams,  which  soil  is  of 
course  finally  left  spread  at  the  exact  level  of  the  surface  of 
the  former  lake,  as  level  as  the  quiet  water  itself.  Hence  we 
constantly  meet  with  plains  in  hill  districts,  which  fill  the 
hollows  of  the  hills  with  as  perfect  and  faultless  a  level  as 
water,  and  out  of  which  the  steep  rocks  rise  at  the  edge  with 
as  little  previous  disturbance,  or  indication  of  their  forms 
beneath,  as  they  do  from  the  margin  of  a  quiet  lake.  Every 
delta — and  there  is  one  at  the  head  of  every  lake  in  every 
hill-district — supplies  an  instance  of  this.    The  rocks  at  Al- 


OF  GENERAL  STRUCTURE. 


25 


torf  plunge  beneath  the  plain,  which  the  lake  has  left,  at  as 
sharp  an  angle  as  they  do  into  the  lake  itself  beside  the 
chapel  of  Tell.  The  plain  of  the  Arve,  at  Sallenche,  is  ter- 
minated so  sharply  by  the  hills  to  the  south-east,  that  I  have 
seen  a  man  sleeping  with  his  back  supported  against  the 
mountain,  and  his  legs  stretched  on  the  plain  ;  the  slope 
which  supported  his  back  rising  5,000  feet  above  him,  and 
the  couch  of  his  legs  stretched  for  five  miles  before  him.  In 
distant  effect  these  champaigns  lie  like  deep,  blue,  undis- 
turbed water,  while  the  mighty  hills  around  them  burst  out 
from  beneath,  raging  and  tossing  like  a  tumultuous  sea.  The 
valleys  of  Meyringen,  Interlachen,  Altorf,  Sallenche,  St. 
Jean  de  Maurienne  ;  the  great  plain  of  Lombardy  itself,  as 
seen  from  Milan  or  Padua,  under  the  Alps,  the  Euganeans, 
and  the  Apennines  ;  and  the  Campo  Felice  under  Vesuvius, 
are  a  few,  out  of  the  thousand  instances,  which  must  occur 
at  once  to  the  mind  of  every  traveller. 

Let  the  reader  now  open  Rogers's  Italy,  at  the  seventeenth 
page,  and  look  at  the  vignette  which  heads  it  of  the  battle  of 
Marengo.    It  needs  no  comment.    It  cannot  but  carry  with 
it,  after  what  has  been  said,  the  instant  convic- 

§6.    lUustrated  ^  .  ,  '  ,      .  , 

by  Turner's  Ma-  tiou  that  1  umer  IS  as  much  or  a  geologist  as  he 
is  of  a  painter.  It  is  a  summary  of  all  we  have 
been  saying,  and  a  summary  so  distinct  and  clear,  that  with- 
out any  such  explanation  it  must  have  forced  upon  the  mind 
the  impression  of  such  facts — of  the  plunging  of  the  hills  un- 
derneath the  plain — of  the  perfect  level  and  repose  of  this 
latter  laid  in  their  arms,  and  of  the  tumultuous  action  of  the 
emergent  summits. 

We  find,  according  to  this  its  internal  structure,  which,  I  be- 
lieve, with  the  assistance  of  Turner,  can  scarcely  now  be  mis- 
understood, that  the  earth  may  be  considered  as  divided  into 
§7.  General  divi-  three  great  classes  of  formation,  which  geology 
risumnf  T o  m  ^as  already  named  for  us.  Primary— the  rocks, 
piin^ori^leSiga^  which,  though  in  position  lower  than  all  others, 
rise  to  form  the  central  peaks,  or  interior  nuclei 
of  all  mountain  ranges.  Secondary — the  rocks  which  are  laid 
in  beds  above  these,  and  which  form  the  greater  proportion 


26 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


of  all  hill  scenery.  Tertiary — the  light  beds  of  sand,  gravel, 
and  clay,  which  are  strewed  upon  the  surface  of  all,  forming 
plains  and  habitable  territory  for  man.  We  shall  find  it  con- 
venient, in  examining  the  truth  of  art,  to  adopt,  with  a  little 
modification,  the  geological  arrangement,  considering  first, 
the  formation  and  character  of  the  highest  or  central  peaks  ; 
then  the  general  structure  of  the  lower  mountains,  including 
in  this  division  those  composed  of  the  various  slates  which  a 
geologist  would  call  primary  ;  and,  lastly,  the  minutiae  and 
most  delicate  characters  of  the  beds  of  these  hills,  when  they 
are  so  near  as  to  become  foreground  objects,  and  the  struct- 
ure of  the  common  soil  which  usually  forms  the  greater 
space  of  an  artist's  foreground.  Hence  our  task  will  arrange 
itself  into  three  divisions — the  investigation  of  the  central 
mountains,  of  the  interior  mountains,  and  of  the  foreground. 


CHAPTER  11. 

OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 

It  does  not  always  follow,  because  a  mountain  is  the  high- 
est of  its  group,  that  it  is  in  reality  one  of  the  central  range. 
The  Jungfrau  is  only  surpassed  in  elevation,  in  the  chain  of 
which  it  is  a  member,  by  the  Schreckhorn  and 

§1.  Similar  char-  a      i  i        •/ •  •  i 

acter  of  the  cen-  Finster-Aarhorn  ;  but  it  is  entirely  a  secondary 
p^a^Ts^^of"\he  mountain.  But  the  central  peaks  are  usually 
world.  highest,  and  may  be  considered  as  the  chief 

components  of  all  mountain  scenery  in  the  snowy  regions. 
Being  composed  of  the  same  rocks  in  all  countries,  their  ex- 
ternal character  is  the  same  everywhere.  Its  chief  essential 
points  are  the  following. 

Their  summits  are  almost  invariably  either  pyramids  or 
§2.  Their  ar-  wcdgcs.  Domcs  may  be  formed  by  superin- 
TyrTmitisor  cumbcnt  snow,  or  appear  to  be  formed  by  the 
by^?erticai^^1is^  continuous  Outline  of  a  sharp  ridge  seen  trans- 
s^res.  versely,  with  its  precipice  to  the  spectator  ;  but 

wherever  a  rock  appears,  the  uppermost  termination  of  that 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


27 


rock  will  be  a  steep  edgy  ridge,  or  a  sharp  point,  very  rarely 
presenting  even  a  gentle  slope  on  any  of  its  sides,  but  usu- 
ally inaccessible  unless  encumbered  with  snow. 

These  pyramids  and  wedges  split  vertically,  or  nearly  so, 
giving  smooth  faces  of  rock,  either  perpendicular  or  very 
steeply  inclined,  which  appear  to  be  laid  against  the  central 
wedge  or  peak,  like  planks  upright  against  a  wall.  The  sur- 
faces of  these  show  close  parallelism  ;  their  fissures  are  verti- 
cal, and  cut  them  smoothly,  like  the  edges  of  shaped  planks. 
Often  groups  of  these  planks,  if  I  may  so  call  them,  rise  higher 
than  those  between  them  and  the  central  ridge,  forming  de- 
tached ridges  inclining  towards  the  central  one.  The  planks 
are  cut  transversely,  sometimes  by  graceful  curvilinear  fis- 
sures ;  sometimes  by  straight  fissures,  which  are  commonly 
parallel  to  the  slope  of  one  of  the  sides  of  the  peak,  while  the 
main  direction  of  the  planks  or  leaves  is  parallel  to  that  of  its 
other  side,  or  points  directly  to  its  summit.  But  the  universal 
law  of  fracture  is — first,  that  it  is  clean  and  sharp,  having  a 
perfectly  smooth  surface,  and  a  perfectly  sharp  edge  to  all  the 
fissures  ;  secondly,  that  every  fissure  is  steeply  inclined,  and 
that  a  horizontal  line,  or  one  approaching  to  it,  is  an  impos- 
sibility, except  in  some  turn  of  a  curve. 

Hence,  however  the  light  may  fall,  these  peaks  are  seen 
marked  with  sharp  and  defined  shadows,  indicating  the  square 
edges  of  the  planks  of  which  they  are  made  up,  which  shad- 
§3.  Causing  ows  Sometimes  are  vertical,  pointing  to  the  sum- 
Sbiing  Tn  ;  but  are  oftener  parallel  to  one  of  the  sides 
artichoke  or  rose,  peak,  and  intersected  by  a  second  series, 

parallel  to  the  other  side.  Where  there  has  been  much  dis- 
integration, the  peak  is  often  surrounded  with  groups  of  lower 
ridges  or  peaks,  like  the  leaves  of  an  artichoke  or  a  rose,  all 
evidently  part  and  parcel  of  the  great  peak  ;  but  falling  back 
from  it,  as  if  it  were  a  budding  flower,  expanding  its  leaves 
one  by  one. 

§  4.  The  faithful  ^  ^^^^  giving  a  lecture  on  geology,  and 

statement  of  were  scarchino^  for  some  means  of  Hvine:  the 

these    facts   by  o  o 

Turner  in  his  Alps  most  faithful  idea  possible  of  the  external  ap- 
at  Daybreak.      pearance  causcd  by  this  structure  of  the  pri- 


28 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


inary  hills,  I  should  throw  my  geological  outlines  aside,  and 
take  up  Turner's  vignette  of  the  Alps  at  Daybreak.  After  what 
has  been  said,  a  single  glance  at  it  will  be  enough.  Observe 
the  exquisite  decision  with  which  the  edge  of  the  uppermost 
plank  of  the  great  peak  is  indicated  by  its  clear  dark  side  and 
sharp  shadow  ;  then  the  rise  of  the  second  low  ridge  on  its 
side,  only  to  descend  again  precisely  in  the  same  line  ;  the 
two  fissures  of  this  peak,  one  pointing  to  its  summit,  the  other 
rigidly  parallel  to  the  great  slope  which  descends  towards  the 
sun  ;  then  the  sharp  white  aiguille  on  the  right,  with  the 
great  fissure  from  its  summit,  rigidly  and  severely  square,  as 
marked  below,  where  another  edge  of  rock  is  laid  upon  it. 
But  this  is  not  all  ;  the  black  rock  in  the  foreground  is  equally 
a  member  of  the  mass,  its  chief  slope  parallel  with  that  of  the 
mountain,  and  all  its  fissures  and  lines  inclined  in  the  same 
direction  ;  and,  to  complete  the  mass  of  evidence  more  forcibly 
still,  we  have  the  dark  mass  on  the  left  articulated  with  ab- 
solute right  lines,  as  parallel  as  if  they  had  been  drawn  with 
a  ruler,  indicating  the  tops  of  two  of  these  huge  plates  or 
planks,  pointing,  with  the  universal  tendency,  to  the  great 
ridge,  and  intersected  by  fissures  parallel  to  it.  Throughout 
the  extent  of  mountain,  not  one  horizontal  line,  nor  an  ap- 
proach to  it,  is  discernible.  This  cannot  be  chance — it  cannot 
be  composition — it  may  not  be  beautiful — perhaps  nature  is 
very  wrong  to  be  so  parallel,  and  very  disagreeable  in  being 
so  straight  ; — but  this  is  nature,  whether  we  admire  it  or  not. 

In  the  vignette  illustration  to  Jacqueline,  we  have  another 
series  of  peaks,  whose  structure  is  less  developed,  owing  to 
their  distance,  but  equally  clear  and  faithful  in  all  points,  as 
far  as  it  is  ffiven.    But  the  visfnette  of  Aosta, 

§  5.  Vignette  of   .       ,      _     ,  ^  .  ,  ^      .  .  ' 

the  Andes  and  in  the  Italy,  IS  perhaps  more  striking  than  any 
that  could  be  named  for  its  rendering  of  the 
perfect  parallelism  of  the  lower  and  smaller  peaks  with  the 
great  lines  of  the  mass  they  compose  ;  and  that  of  the  An- 
des, the  second  in  Campbell,  for  its  indication  of  the  mul- 
titudes of  the  vertical  and  plank-like  beds  arranged  almost 
like  the  leaves  of  a  flower.  This  last  especially,  one  of  the 
very  noblest,  most  faithful,  most  scientific  statements  of 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


29 


mountain  form  which  even  Turner  has  ever  made,  can  leave 
little  more  to  be  said  or  doubted. 

Now,  whenever  these  vast  peaks,  rising  from  12,000  to 
24,000  feet  above  the  sea,  form  part  of  anything  like  a  land- 
scape, that  is  to  say,  whenever  the  spectator  beholds  them 
§  6    Necessary  ^^^^        region  of  Vegetation,  or  even  from  any 

distance,  and  distance  at  which  it  is  possible  to  get  some- 
consequent    ae-     -,.1.1  .  /»    1    •       1    1  1 

rial  effect  on  all  thmg  like  a  view  oi  their  whole  mass,  they  must 

such  mountains,    ,        ^  i       t  i  j»         i  •  ^  i 

be  at  so  great  a  distance  irom  him  as  to  become 
aerial  and  faint  in  all  their  details.  Their  summits,  and  all 
those  higher  masses  of  whose  character  we  have  been  speak- 
ing, can  by  no  possibility  be  nearer  to  him  than  twelve  or 
fifteen  miles  ;  to  approach  them  nearer  he  must  climb — must 
leave  the  region  of  vegetation,  and  must  confine  his  view  to 
a  part,  and  that  a  very  limited  one,  of  the  mountain  he  is 
ascending.  Whenever,  therefore,  these  mountains  are  seen 
over  anything  like  vegetation,  or  are  seen  in  mass,  they 
must  be  in  the  far  distance.  Most  artists  would  treat  an 
horizon  fifteen  miles  off  very  much  as  if  it  were  mere  air;  and 
though  the  greater  clearness  of  the  upper  air  permits  the 
high  summits  to  be  seen  with  extraordinary  distinctness,  yet 
they  never  can  by  any  possibility  have  dark  or  deep  shadows, 
or  intense  dark  relief  against  a  light.  Clear  they  may  be, 
but  faint  they  must  be,  and  their  great  and  prevailing  char- 
acteristic, as  distinguished  from  other  mountains,  is  want  of 
apparent  solidity.  They  rise  in  the  morning  light  rather  like 
sharp  shades,  cast  up  into  the  sky,  than  solid  earth.  Their 
lights  are  pure,  roseate,  and  cloud-like — their  shadows  trans- 
parent, pale,  and  opalescent,  and  often  indistinguishable 
from  the  air  around  them,  so  that  the  mountain-top  is  seen 
in  the  heaven  only  by  its  flakes  of  motionless  fire. 

Now,  let  me  once  more  ask,  though  I  am  sufficiently  tired 
§7  Total  want  asking,  what  record  have  we  of  anything  like 
of  any  rendering  this  in  the  works  of  the  old  masters  ?    There  is 

or  their  phenom-  ,        ,  .     .  .  p    i        t  i 

ena  in  ancient  no  vcstigc  in  any  existing  picturc  of  the  slight- 
est effort  to  represent  the  high  hill  ranges ;  and 
as  for  such  drawing  of   their  forms  as  we  have  found  in 
Turner,  we  might  as  well  look  for  them  among  the  Chinese. 


30 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


Very  possibly  it  may  be  all  quite  right, — very  probably  these 
men  showed  the  most  cultivated  taste,  the  most  unerring 
judgment,  in  filling  their  pictures  with  mole-hills  and  sand- 
heaps.  Very  probably  the  withered  and  poisonous  banks  of 
Avernus,  and  the  sand  and  cinders  of  the  Campagna,  are 
much  more  sublime  things  than  the  Alps  ;  but  still  what 
limited  truth  it  is,  if  truth  it  be,  when  through  the  last  fifty 
pages  we  have  been  pointing  out  fact  after  fact,  scene  after 
scene,  in  clouds  and  hills,  (and  not  individual  facts  nor  scenes, 
but  great  and  important  classes  of  them,)  and  still  we  have 
nothing  to  say  when  we  come  to  the  old  masters  ;  but,  "they 
are  not  here."  Yet  this  is  what  we  hear  so  constantly  called 
painting  "  general  "  nature. 

Although,  however,  there  is  no  vestige  among  the  old 
masters  of  any  effort  to  represent  the  attributes  of  the  higher 
mountains  seen  in  comparative  proximity,  we  are  not  alto- 
o  o  r.^     .    r  firether  left  without  evidence  of  their  having: 

§  8.  Character  of   »  ^  & 

the  representa-  thousfht  of  them  as  sourccs  of  liffht  in  the  ex- 

tions  of  Alps  in  ^  i       •  i 

the  distances  of  trcme  distance,  as  for  example,  in  that  of  the 
reputed  Claude  in  our  National  Gallery,  called 
the  Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca.  I  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt  of  its  being  a  most  execrable  copy  ;  for  there  is  not 
one  touch  nor  line  of  even  decent  painting  in  the  whole  pict- 
ure ;  but  as  connoisseurs  have  considered  it  a  Claude,  as  it 
has  been  put  in  our  Gallery  for  a  Claude,  and  as  people  ad- 
mire it  every  day  for  a  Claude,  I  may  at  least  presume  it  has 
those  qualities  of  Claude  in  it  which  are  wont  to  excite  the 
public  admiration,  though  it  possesses  none  of  those  which 
sometimes  give  him  claim  to  it  ;  and  I  have  so  reasoned,  and 
shall  continue  to  reason  upon  it,  especially  with  respect  to 
facts  of  form,  which  cannot  have  been  much  altered  by  the 
copyist.  In  the  distance*of  that  picture  (as  well  as  in  that 
of  the  Sinon  before  Priam,  which  I  have  little  doubt  is  at 
least  partially  original,  and  whose  central  group  of  trees  is  a 
very  noble  piece  of  painting)  is  something  white,  which  I 
§9.  Their  total  believe  must  be  intended  for  a  snowy  moun- 
J^de*  andTeri^i  ^ain,  because  I  do  not  see  that  it  can  well  be  in- 
distance.  tended  for  anything  else.    Now  no  mountain  of 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


31 


elevation  sufficient  to  be  so  sheeted  with  perpetual  snow,  can 
by  any  possibility  sink  so  low  on  the  horizon  as  this  some- 
thing of  Claude's,  unless  it  be  at  a  distance  of  from  fifty  to 
seventy  miles.  At  such  distances,  though  the  outline  is  in- 
variably sharp  and  edgy  to  an  excess,  yet  all  the  circum- 
stances of  aerial  perspective,  faintness  of  shadow,  and  isola- 
tion of  light,  which  I  have  described  as  characteristic  of  the 
Alps  fifteen  miles  off,  take  place,  of  course,  in  a  threefold 
degree  ;  the  mountains  rise  from  the  horizon  like  transparent 
films,  only  distinguishable  from  mist  by  their  excessively 
keen  edges,  and  their  brilliant  flashes  of  sudden  light  ;  they 
are  as  unsubstantial  as  the  air  itself,  and  impress  their  enor- 
mous size  by  means  of  this  aerialness,  in  a  far  greater  degree 
at  these  vast  distances,  than  even  when  towering  above  the 
spectator's  head.  Now,  I  ask  of  the  candid  observer,  if  there 
be  the  smallest  vestige  of  an  effort  to  attain — if  there  be  the 
most  miserable,  the  most  contemptible  shadow  of  attainment 
of  such  an  effect  by  Claude  ?  Does  that  white  thing  on  the 
horizon  look  seventy  miles  off  ?  Is  it  faint,  or  fading,  or  to 
be  looked  for  by  the  eye  before  it  can  be  found  out  ?  Does 
it  look  high  ?  does  it  look  large  ?  does  it  look  impressive  ? 
You  cannot  but  feel  that  there  is  not  a  vestige  of  any  kind 
or  species  of  truth  in  that  horizon  ;  and  that,  however  artis- 
tical  it  may  be,  as  giving  brilliancy  to  the  distance,  (though, 
as  far  as  I  have  any  feeling  in  the  matter,  it  only  gives  cold- 
ness,) it  is,  in  the  very  branch  of  art  on  which  Claude's  rep- 
utation chiefly  rests,  aerial  perspective,  hurling  defiance  to 
nature  in  her  very  teeth. 

But  there  are  worse  failures  yet  in  this  unlucky  distance. 
Aerial  perspective  is  not  a  matter  of  paramount  importance, 
because  nature  infringes  its  laws  herself,  and  boldly  too, 
§10.  And  viola-  though  never  in  a  case  like  this  before  us  ;  but 

tion  of   specific  ,  i  •  i  , 

form.  there  are  some  laws  which  nature  never  vio- 

lates— her  laws  of  form.  No  mountain  was  ever  raised  to  the 
level  of  perpetual  snow,  without  an  infinite  multiplicity  of 
form.  Its  foundation  is  built  of  a  hundred  minor  mountains, 
and,  from  these,  great  buttresses  run  in  converging  ridges  to 
the  central  peak.    There  is  no  exception  to  this  rule  ;  no 


32 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOVNTAINS. 


mountain  15,000  feet  high  is  ever  raised  without  such  prep- 
aration and  variety  of  outwork.  Consequently,  in  distant 
effect,  when  chains  of  such  peaks  are  visible  at  once,  the 
multiplicity  of  form  is  absolutely  oceanic  ;  and  though  it  is 
possible  in  near  scenes  to  find  vast  and  simple  masses  com- 
posed of  lines  which  run  unbroken  for  a  thousand  feet,  or 
more,  it  is  physically  impossible  when  these  masses  are 
thrown  seventy  miles  back,  to  have  simple  outlines,  for  then 
these  large  features  become  mere  jags,  and  hillocks,  and  are 
heaped  and  huddled  together  with  endless  confusion.  To  get 
a  simple  form,  seventy  miles  away,  mountain  lines  would  be 
required  unbroken  for  leagues  ;  and  this,  I  repeat,  is  physi- 
cally impossible.  Hence  these  mountains  of  Claude,  having 
no  indication  of  the  steep  vertical  summits  which  we  have 
shown  to  be  the  characteristic  of  the  central  ridges,  having 
soft  edges  instead  of  decisive  ones,  simple  forms  (one  line  to 
the  plain  on  each  side)  instead  of  varied  and  broken  ones, 
and  being  painted  with  a  crude  raw  white,  having  no  trans- 
parency, nor  filminess,  nor  air  in  it,  instead  of  rising  in  the 
opalescent  mystery  which  invariably  characterizes  the  dis- 
tant snows,  have  the  forms  and  the  colors  of  heaps  of  chalk 
in  a  lime-kiln,  not  of  Alps.  They  are  destitute  of  energy, 
of  height,  of  distance,  of  splendor,  and  of  variety,  and  are 
the  work  of  a  man,  whether  Claude  or  not,  who  had  neither 
feelinof  for  nature,  nor  knowleds^e  of  art. 

I  should  not,  however,  insist  upon  the  faults  of  this  pict- 
§11.  Even  in  Ma  believing  it  to  be  a  copy,  if  I  had  ever  seen, 
best  works.  eveu  in  his  most  genuine  works,  an  extreme 
distance  of  Claude  with  any  of  the  essential  characters  of 
nature.  But  although  in  his  better  pictures  we  have  always 
beautiful  drawing  of  the  air^  which  in  the  copy  before  us  is 
entirely  wanting,  the  real  features  of  the  extreme  mountain 
distance  are  equally  neglected  or  maligned  in  all.  There  is, 
indeed,  air  between  us  and  it  ;  but  ten  miles,  not  seventy 
miles  of  space.  Let  us  observe  a  little  more  closely  the 
practice  of  nature  in  such  cases. 

The  multiplicity  of  form  which  I  have  shown  to  be  neces- 
sary in  the  outline,  is  not  less  felt  in  the  body  of  the  mass. 


•    OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS, 


33 


For,  in  all  extensive  hill  ranges,  there  are  five  or  six  lateral 
chains  separated  by  deep  valleys,  which  rise  between  the 
spectator  and  the  central  ridge,  showing:  their 

§12.  Farther  il-     ^  .  i  i  -i 

lustration  of  the  tops  One  over  another,  wave  beyond  wave,  until 

distant  character     ,  .  '    ^  ^      ^    i  £  '    j.     i.  ii'i 

of  mountain  the  eye  IS  carried  back  to  the  laintest  and  high- 
chams.  forms  of  the  principal  chain.  These  successive 

ridges,  and  I  speak  now  not  merely  of  the  Alps,  but  of  moun- 
tains generally,  even  as  low  as  3000  feet  above  the  sea,  show 
themselves  in  extreme  distance  merely  as  vertical  shades,  with 
very  sharp  outlines,  detached  from  one  another  by  greater 
intensity,  according  to  their  nearness.  It  is  with  the  utmost 
difficulty  that  the  eye  can  discern  any  solidity  or  roundness 
in  them  ;  the  lights  and  shades  of  solid  form  are  both  equally 
lost  in  the  blue  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  mountain  tells  only 
as  a  flat,  sharp-edged  film,  of  which  multitudes  intersect  and 
overtop  one  another,  separated  by  the  greater  faintness  of 
the  retiring  masses.  This  is  the  most  simple  and  easily  im- 
itated arrangement  possible,  and  yet,  both  in  nature  and  art, 
it  expresses  distance  and  size  in  a  way  otherwise  quite  unat- 
tainable. For  thus,  the  whole  mass  of  one  mountain  being 
of  one  shada  only,  the  smallest  possible  difference  in  shade 
will  serve  completely  to  detach  it  from  another,  and  thus  ten 
or  twelve  distances  may  be  made  evident,  when  the  darkest 
and  nearest  is  an  aerial  gray  as  faint  as  the  sky  ;  and  the 
beauty  of  such  arrangements  carried  out  as  nature  carries 
them,  to  their  highest  degree,  is,  perhaps,  the  most  striking 
feature  connected  with  hill  scenery  :  you  will  never,  by  any 
chance,  perceive  in  extreme  distance,  anythinq; 

§13.  Their  exces-    ...  t  i  «  .       .  /.    i      i  -n  f 

sive  appearance  of  like  solid  lorm  or  projection  ot  the  hills.  xLach 
tiansparency.  ^  dead,  flat,  perpendicular  film  or  shade,  with 

a  sharp  edge  darkest  at  the  summit,  and  lost  as  it  descends, 
and  about  equally  dark  whether  turned  towards  the  light  or 
from  it  ;  and  of  these  successive  films  of  mountain  you  will 
probably  have  half  a  dozen,  one  behind  another,  all  showing 
with  perfect  clearness  their  every  chasm  and  peak  in  the  out- 
line, and  not  one  of  them  showing  the  slightest  vestige  of 
solidity,  but  on  the  contrary,  looking  so  thoroughly  transpa- 
rent, that  if  it  so  happens,  as  I  have  seen  frequently,  that  a 
Vol.  II.— 3 


34  OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


conical  near  hill  meets  with  its  summit  the  separation  of  two 
distant  ones,  so  that  the  right-hand  slope  of  the  nearer  hill 
forms  an  apparent  continuation  of  the  right-hand  slope  of  the 
left-hand  farther  hill,  and  vice  versa,  it  is  impossible  to  get 
rid  of  the  impression  that  one  of  the  more  distant  peaks  is 
seen  through  the  other. 

I  may  point  out  in  illustration  of  these  facts,  the  engrav- 
ings of  two  drawings  of  precisely  the  same  chain  of  distant 
hills, — Stanfield's  Borromean  Islands,  with  the  St.  Gothard  in 
§  14.  Illustrated  distance,  and  Turner's  Arona,  also  with  the 
from  the  works  of  g^.  Gothard  in  the  distance.   Far  be  it  from  me 

Turner  and  Stan- 
field.  The  Borro-  to  indicate  the  former  of  these  plates  as  in  any 

mean  Islands  of  .  , 

the  latter.  way  exemplifying  the  power  of  Stanfield,  or 

affecting  his  reputation  ;  it  is  an  unlucky  drawing,  murdered 
by  the  engraver,  and  as  far  from  being  characteristic  of  Stan- 
field  as  it  is  from  being  like  nature,  but  it  is  just  what  I  want, 
to  illustrate  the  particular  error  of  which  I  speak  ;  and  I  pre- 
fer showing  this  error  where  it  accidentally  exists  in  the  works 
of  a  really  great  artist,  standing  there  alone,  to  point  it  out 
where  it  is  confused  with  other  faults  and  falsehoods  in  the 
works  of  inferior  hands.  The  former  of  these  plates  is  an  ex- 
ample of  everything  which  a  hill  distance  is  not,  and  the 
latter  of  everything  which  it  is.  In  the  former,  we  have  the 
mountains  covered  with  patchy  lights,  which  being  of  equal 
intensity  whether  near  or  distant,  confuse  all  the  distances 
together  ;  while  the  eye,  perceiving  that  the  light  falls  so  as 
to  give  details  of  solid  form,  yet  finding  nothing  but  insipid 
and  formless  spaces  displayed  by  it,  is  compelled  to  suppose 
that  the  whole  body  of  the  hill  is  equally  monotonous  and 
devoid  of  character  ;  and  the  effect  upon  it  is  not  one  whit 
more  impressive  and  agreeable  than  might  be  received  from 
a  group  of  sand-heaps,  washed  into  uniformity  by  recent 
rain. 

Compare  with  this  the  distance  of  Turner  in  Arona.  It  is 
§  15.  Turner's  totally  impossible  here  to  say  which  way  the  light 
Arona.  f^jjg      ^he  distant  hills,  except  by  the  slightly 

increased  decision  of  their  edges  turned  towards  it,  but  the 
greatest  attention  is  paid  to  get  these  edges  decisive,  yet  full 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


35 


of  gradation,  and  perfectly  true  in  character  of  form.  All  the 
rest  of  the  mountain  is  then  indistinguishable  haze,  and  by 
the  bringing  of  these  edges  more  and  more  decisively  over 
one  another,  Turner  has  given  us  between  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  picture  and  the  snow,  fifteen  distinct  distances,  yet 
every  one  of  these  distances  in  itself  palpitating,  changeful, 
and  suggesting  subdivision  into  countless  multitude.  Some- 
thing of  this  is  traceable  even  in  the  engraving,  and  all  the 
essential  characters  are  perfectly  well  marked.  I  think  even 
the  least  experienced  eye  can  scarcely  but  feel  the  truth  of 
this  distance  as  compared  with  Stanfield's.  In  the  latter,  the 
eye  gets  something  of  the  form,  and  therefore  wonders  it  sees 
no  more  ;  the  impression  on  it,  therefore,  is  of  hills  within 
distinctly  visible  distance,  indiscernible  through  want  of  light 
or  dim  atmosphere  ;  and  the  effect  is,  of  course,  smallness  of 
space,  with  obscurity  of  light  and  thickness  of  air.  In  Tur- 
ner's the  eye  gets  nothing  of  the  substance,  and  wonders  it 
sees  so  much  of  the  outline  ;  the  impression  is,  therefore, 
of  mountains  too  far  off  to  be  ever  distinctly  seen,  rendered 
clear  by  brilliancy  of  light  and  purity  of  atmosphere  ;  and 
the  effect,  consequently,  vastness  of  space,  with  intensity  of 
light  and  crystalline  transparency  of  air. 

These  truths  are  invariably  given  in  every  one  of  Turner's 
distances,  that  is  to  say,  we  have  always  in  them  two  prin- 
cipal facts  forced  on  our  notice  ;  transparency,  or  filminess 
§  16.  Extreme  of  mass,  and  excessive  sharpness  of  edge.  And 
object^  ^always  I  wish  particularly  to  insist  upon  this  sharpness 
f^l^t^^^^^'^l  of  edge,  because  it  is  not  a  casual  or  changeful 
habit  of  nature  ;  it  is  the  unfailing  character- 
istic of  all  very  great  distances.  It  is  quite  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  slurred  or  melting  lines  are  characteristic  of 
distant  large  objects  ;  they  may  be  so,  as  before  observed, 
(Sec.  II.  Chap.  lY.  §  4,)  when  the  focus  of  the  eye  is  not 
adapted  to  them  ;  but,  when  the  eye  is  really  directed  to  the 
distance,  melting  lines  are  characteristic  only  of  thick  mist 
and  vapor  between  us  and  the  object,  not  of  the  removal  of 
the  object.  If  a  thing  has  character  upon  its  outline,  as  a 
tree  for  instance,  or  a  mossy  stone,  the  farther  it  is  removed 


36 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


from  us,  the  sharper  the  outline  of  the  whole  mass  will  be- 
come, though  in  doing  so,  the  particular  details  which  make 
up  the  character  will  become  confused  in  the  manner  de- 
scribed in  the  same  chapter.  A  tree  fifty  yards  from  us, 
taken  as  a  mass,  has  a  soft  outline,  because  the  leaves  and 
interstices  have  some  effect  on  the  eye.  But  put  it  ten 
miles  off  against  the  sky,  and  its  outline  will  be  so  sharp  that 
you  cannot  tell  it  from  a  rock.  There  are  three  trees  on  the 
Mont  Saleve,  about  five  miles  from  Geneva,  which  from  the 
city,  as  they  stand  on  the  ridge  of  the  hill,  are  seen  defined 
against  the  sky.  The  keenest  eye  in  the  world  could  not 
tell  them  from  stones.  So  in  a  mountain  five  or  six  miles 
off,  bushes,  and  heather,  and  roughnesses  of  knotty  ground 
and  rock,  have  still  some  effect  on  the  eye,  and  by  becoming 
confused  and  mingled  as  before  described,  soften  the  out- 
line. But  let  the  mountain  be  thirty  miles  off,  and  its  edge 
will  be  as  sharp  as  a  knife.  Let  it,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Alps,  be  seventy  or  eighty  miles  off,  and  though  it  has  be- 
come so  faint  that  the  morning  mist  is  not  so  transparent, 
its  outline  will  be  beyond  all  imitation  for  excessive  sharp- 
ness. Thus,  then,  the  character  of  extreme  distance  is  al- 
ways excessive  keenness  of  edge.  If  you  soften  your  out- 
line, you  either  put  mist  between  you  and  the  object,  and  in 
doing  so  diminish  your  distance,  for  it  is  impossible  you 
should  see  so  far  through  mist  as  through  clear  air  ;  or,  if 
you  keep  an  impression  of  clear  air,  you  bring  the  object 
close  to  the  observer,  diminish  its  size  in  proportion,  and  if 
the  aerial  colors,  excessive  blues,  etc.,  be' retained,  represent 
an  impossibility. 

Take  Claude's  distance  (in  No.  244,  Dulwich  Gallery,)  *  on 
the  right  of  the  picture.  It  is  as  pure  blue  as  ever  came  from 
the  pallet,  laid  on  thick  ;  you  cannot  see  through  it,  there  is 
not  the  slio'htest  vestio^e  of  transparency  or  film- 

§  17.    Want  of    .  i     °  t    -f      i        •         i?^        j   ui  ^ 

this  decision  in  iness  about  it,  and  Its  edge  is  sott  and  blunt. 
Claude.  Hencc,  if  it  be  meant  for  near  hills,  the  blue  is 

impossible,  and  the  want  of  details  impossible,  in  the  clear 


*  One  of  the  most  genuine  Claudes  I  know. 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


37 


atmosphere  indicated  through  the  whole  picture.  If  it  be 
meant  for  extreme  distance,  the  blunt  edge  is  impossible, 
and  the  opacity  is  impossible.  I  do  not  know  a  single  dis- 
tance of  the  Italian  school  to  which  the  same  observation  is 
not  entirely  applicable,  except,  perhaps,  one  or  two  of  Nich- 
olas Poussin's.  They  always  involve,  under  any  supposition 
whatsoever,  at  least  two  impossibilities. 

I  need  scarcely  mention  in  particular  any  more  of  the 
works  of  Turner,  because  there  is  not  one  of  his  mountain 
distances  in  which  these  facts  are  not  fully  exemplified.  Look 
o       r^^.         at  the  last  vio-nette — the  Farewell,  in  Ro2:ers's 

§  18.    The  per-  »  ^  '  & 

petual  rendering  Italy  I  obscrvc  the  exccssive  sharpness  of  all  the 

of  it  by  Turner.  ^  . 

edges,  almost  amounting  to  lines,  in  the  dis- 
tance, while  there  is  scarcely  one  decisive  edge  in  the  fore- 
ground. Look  at  the  hills  of  the  distance  in  the  Dunstaff- 
nage,  Glencoe,  and  Loch  Achray,  (illustrations  to  Scott,)  in 
the  latter  of  which  the  left-hand  side  of  the  Benvenue  is 
actually  marked  with  a  dark  line.  In  fact,  Turner's  usual 
mode  of  executing  these  passages  is  perfectly  evident  in  all 
his  drawings  ;  it  is  not  often  that  we  meet  with  a  very  broad 
dash  of  wet  color  in  his  finished  works,  but  in  these  distances, 
as  we  before  saw  of  his  shadows,  all  the  effect  has  been  evi- 
dently given  by  a  dash  of  very  moist  pale  color,  probably 
turning  the  paper  upside  down,  so  that  a  very  firm  edge  may 
be  left  at  the  top  of  the  mountain  as  the  color  dries.  And 
in  the  Battle  of  Marengo  we  find  the  principle  carried  so  far 
as  to  give  nothing  more  than  actual  outline  for  the  represen- 
tation of  the  extreme  distance,  while  all  the  other  hills  in  the 
picture  are  distinctly  darkest  at  the  edge.  This  plate,  though 
coarsely  executed,  is  yet  one  of  the  noblest  illustrations  of 
mountain  character  and  masrnitude  existino^. 

Such,  then,  are  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  highest  peaks 
and  extreme  distances  of  all  hills,  as  far  as  the  forms  of  the 
§  19.  Efeects  of  rocks  themselves,  and  the  aerial  appearances  es- 
perfectiyTt  u  d^-  pecially  belonging  to  them,  are  alone  concerned. 

There  is,  however,  yet  another  point  to  be  con- 
sidered— the  modification  of  their  form  caused  by  incumbent 
snow. 


38 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


Pictures  of  winter  scenery  are  nearly  as  common  as  moon- 
lights, and  are  usually  executed  by  the  same  order  of  artists, 
that  is  to  say,  the  most  incapable  ;  it  being  remarkably  easy 
to  represent  the  moon  as  a  white  wafer  on  a  black  ground,  or 
to  scratch  out  white  branches  on  a  cloudy  sky.  Neverthe- 
less, among  Flemish  paintings  several  valuable  representa- 
tions of  winter  are  to  be  found,  and  some  clever  pieces  of 
effect  among  the  moderns,  as  Hunt's,  for  instance,  and  De 
Wint's.  But  all  such  efforts  end  in  effect  alone,  nor  have  I 
ever  in  any  single  instance  seen  a  snow  wreathy  I  do  not  say 
thoroughly,  but  even  decently,  drawn. 

In  the  range  of  inorganic  nature,  I  doubt  if  any  object  can 
be  found  more  perfectly  beautiful  than  a  fresh,  deep  snow- 
drift, seen  under  warm  light.*  Its  curves  are  of  inconceiv- 
able perfection  and  changefulness,  its  surface  and  transpar- 
ency alike  exquisite,  its  light  and  shade  of  inexhaustible 
variety  and  inimitable  finish,  the  shadows  sharp,  pale,  and  of 
heavenly  color,  the  reflected  lights  intense  and  multitudi- 
nous, and  mingled  with  the  sweet  occurrences  of  transmitted 
light.  No  mortal  hand  can  approach  the  majesty  or  loveli- 
ness of  it,  yet  it  is  possible  by  care  and  skill  at  least  to  sug- 
gest the  preciousness  of  its  forms  and  intimate  the  nature  of 
its  light  and  shade  ;  but  this  has  never  been  attempted  ;  it 
could  not  be  done  except  by  artists  of  a  rank  exceedingly 
high,  and  there  is  something  about  the  feeling  of  snow  in 
ordinary  scenery  which  such  men  do  not  like.  But  when  the 
same  qualities  are  exhibited  on  a  magnificent  Alpine  scale 
and  in  a  position  where  they  interfere  with  no  feeling  of  life, 
I  see  not  why  they  should  be  neglected,  as  they  have  hith- 
erto been,  unless  that  the  difficulty  of  reconciling  the  brill- 
iancy of  snow  with  a  picturesque  light  and  shade,  is  so  great 
that  most  good  artists  disguise  or  avoid  the  greater  part  of 
upper  Alpine  scenery,  and  hint  at  the  glacier  so  slightly,  that 
they  do  not  feel  the  necessity  of  careful  study  of  its  forms. 
Habits  of  exaggeration  increase  the  evil  :  I  have  seen  a 
sketch  from  nature,  by  one  of  the  most  able  of  our  landscape 


*  Compare  Part  III.  Sect.  I.  Chap.  9,  §  5. 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


39 


painters,  in  which  a  cloud  had  been  mistaken  for  a  snowy 
summit,  and  the  hint  thus  taken  exaggerated,  as  was  likely, 
into  an  enormous  mass  of  impossible  height^  and  unintelli- 
gent form,  when  the  mountain  itself,  for  which  the  cloud  had 
been  mistaken,  though  subtending  an  angle  of  about  eighteen 
or  twenty  degrees,  instead  of  the  fifty  attributed  to  it,  was  of 
a  form  so  exquisite  that  it  might  have  been  a  profitable  les- 
son truly  studied  to  Phidias.  Nothing  but  failure  can  result 
from  such  methods  of  sketching,  nor  have  I  ever  seen  a  sin- 
gle instance  of  an  earnest  study  of  snowy  mountains  by  any 
one.  Hence,  wherever  they  are  introduced,  their  drawing  is 
utterly  unintelligent,  the  forms  being  those  of  white  rocks, 
or  of  rocks  lightly  powdered  with  snow,  showing  sufficiently 
that  not  only  the  painters  have  never  studied  the  mountain 
carefully  from  below,  but  that  they  have  never  climbed  into 
the  snowy  region.  Harding's  rendering  of  the  high  Alps 
{vide  the  engraving  of  Chamonix,  and  of  the  Wengern  Alp, 
in  the  illustrations  to  Byron)  is  best  ;  but  even  he  shows  no 
perception  of  the  real  anatomy.  Stanfield  paints  only  white 
rocks  instead  of  snow.  Turner  invariably  avoids  the  diffi- 
culty, though  he  has  shown  himself  capable  of  grappling 
with  it  in  the  ice  of  the  Liber  Studiorum,  (Mer  de  Glace,) 
which  is  very  cold  and  slippery  and  very  like  ice  ;  but  of  the 
crusts  and  wreaths  of  the  higher  snow  he  has  taken  no  cog- 
nizance. Even  the  vignettes  to  Rogers's  Poems  fail  in  this 
respect.  It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  in  this  place  to  give 
any  detailed  account  of  the  phenomena  of  the  upper  snows  ; 
but  it  may  be  well  to  note  those  general  principles  which 
every  artist  ought  to  keep  in  mind  when  he  has  to  paint  an 
Alp. 

Snow  is  modified  by  the  under  forms  of  the  hill  in  some 
§  20     G      1  dress  is  by  the  anatomy  of  the  human 

principles  of  its  frame.    And  as  no  dress  can  be  well  laid  on 

forms  on  the  Alps.      •  i  i       ,  •    •  .  ^       ^      t      ^  ^ 

Without  conceiving  the  body  beneath,  so  no 
Alp  can  be  drawn  unless  its  under  form  is  conceived  first, 
and  its  snow  laid  on  afterwards. 

Every  high  Alp  has  as  much  snow  upon  it  as  it  can  hold 
or  carry.    It  is  not,  observe,  a  mere  coating  of  snow  of  given 


40 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS. 


depth  throughout,  but  it  is  snow  loaded  on  until  the  rocks 
can  hold  no  more.  The  surplus  does  not  fall  in  the  winter^ 
because,  fastened  by  continual  frost,  the  quantity  of  snow 
which  an  Alp  can  carry  is  greater  than  each  single  winter  can 
bestow  ;  it  falls  in  the  first  mild  days  of  spring  in  enormous 
avalanches.  Afterwards  the  melting  continues,  gradually  re- 
moving from  all  the  steep  rocks  the  small  quantity  of  snow 
which  was  all  they  could  hold,  and  leaving  them  black  and 
bare  among  the  accumulated  fields  of  unknown  depth,  which 
occupy  the  capacious  valleys  and  less  inclined  superfices  ot 
the  mountain. 

Hence  it  follows  that  the  deepest  snow  does  not  take  nor 
indicate  the  actual  forms  of  the  rocks  on  which  it  lies,  but  it 
hangs  from  peak  to  peak  in  unbroken  and  sweeping  fes- 
toons,  or  covers  whole  groups  of  peaks,  which  afford  it 
sufficient  hold,  with  vast  and  unbroken  domes  :  these  fes- 
toons and  domes  being  guided  in  their  curves,  and  modified 
in  size,  by  the  violence  and  prevalent  direction  of  the  winter 
winds. 

We  have,  therefore,  every  variety  of  indication  of  the 
under  mountain  form  ;  first,  the  mere  coating,  which  is  soon 
to  be  withdrawn,  and  which  shows  as  a  mere  sprinkling  or 
powdering  after  a  storm  on  the  higher  peaks  ;  then  the  shal- 
low incrustation  on  the  steep  sides  glazed  by  the  running 
down  of  its  frequent  meltings,  frozen  again  in  the  night ; 
then  the  deep  snow  more  or  less  cramped  or  modified  by  sud- 
den eminences  of  emergent  rock,  or  hanging  in  fractured 
festoons  and  huge  blue  irregular  cliffs  on  the  mountain 
flanks,  and  over  the  edges  and  summits  of  their  precipices  m 
nodding  drifts,  far  overhanging,  like  a  cornice,  (perilous 
things  to  approach  the  edge  of  from  above  ;)  finally,  the  pure 
accumulation  of  overwhelming  depth,  smooth,  sweeping,  and 
almost  cleftless,  and  modified  only  by  its  lines  of  drifting- 
Countless  phenomena  of  exquisite  beauty  belong  to  each  of 
these  conditions,  not  to  speak  of  the  transition  of  the  snow 
into  ice  at  lower  levels  ;  but  all  on  which  I  shall  at  present 
insist  is  that  the  artist  should  not  think  of  his  Alp  merely  as 
a  white  mountain,  but  conceive  it  as  a  group  of  peaks  loaded 


OF  THE  CENTRAL  MOUNTAINS, 


41 


with  an  accumulation  of  snow,  and  that  especially  he  should 
avail  himself  of  the  exquisite  curvatures,  never  failing,  by 
which  the  snow  unites  and  opposes  the  harsh  and  broken 
lines  of  the  rock.  I  shall  enter  into  farther  detail  on  this 
subject  hereafter  ;  at  present  it  is  useless  to  do  so,  as  I  have 
no  examples  to  refer  to,  either  in  ancient  or  modern  art.  No 
statement  of  these  facts  has  hitherto  been  made,  nor  any 
evidence  given  even  of  their  observation,  except  by  the  most 
inferior  painters.* 

Various  works  in  green  and  white  appear  from  time  to 
time  on  the  walls  of  the  Academy,  like  the  Alps  indeed,  but 
so  frightfully  like,  that  we  shudder  and  sicken  at  the  sight 
§  21.  Average  of  them,  as  wc  do  when  our  best  friend  shows 
Switzerland.^  Its  iuto  his  diuing-room,  to  see  a  portrait  of 
scarcely  yet  been  himsclf,  which  "everybody  thinks  very  like.'* 
caught.  should  be  glad  to  see  fewer  of  these,  for 

Switzerland  is  quite  beyond  the  power  of  any  but  first-rate 
men,  and  is  exceedingly  bad  practice  for  a  rising  artist  ;  but, 
let  us  express  a  hope  that  Alpine  scenery  will  not  continue 
to  be  neglected- as  it  has  been,  by  those  who  alone  are  ca- 
pable of  treating  it.  We  love  Italy,  but  we  have  had  rather 
a  surfeit  of  it  lately; — too  many  peaked  caps  and  flat-headed 
pines.  We  should  be  very  grateful  to  Harding  and  Stan- 
field  if  they  would  refresh  us  a  little  among  the  snow,  and 
give  us,  what  we  believe  them  to  be  capable  of  giving  us,  a 
faithful  expression  of  Alpine  ideal.  We  are  well  aware  of 
the  pain  inflicted  on  an  artist's  mind  by  the  preponderance 
of  black,  and  white,  and  green,  over  more  available  colors  ; 
but  there  is  nevertheless  in  generic  Alpine  scenery,  a  foun- 
tain of  feeling  yet  unopened — a  chord  of  harmony  yet  un- 
touched by  art.  It  will .  be  struck  by  the  first  man  who  can 
separate  what  is  national,  in  Switzerland,  from  what  is  ideal. 
We  do  not  want  chalets  and  three-legged  stools,  "cow-bells 
and  buttermilk.  We  want  the  pure  and  holy  hills,  treated 
as  a  link  between  heaven  and  earth. 

*  I  hear  of  some  study  of  Alpine  scenery  among  the  professors  at 
Geneva  ;  but  all  foreign  landscape  that  I  have  ever  met  with  has  been  so 
utterly  ignorant  that  I  hope  for  nothing  except  from  our  own  painters. 


42  OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 

We  have  next  to  investigate  the  character  of  those  inter- 
§  1.  The  inferior  mediate  masses  which  constitute  the  greater 
dng\iilh" d  ^^^f ro^^  P^^'t  of  all  hill  scenery,  forming  the  outworks 
Sg  ""divided^^  into  ^^§^1  ranges,  and  being  almost  the  sole 

constituents  of  such  lower  groups  as  those  of 
Cumberland,  Scotland,  or  South  Italy. 

All  mountains  whatever,  not  composed  of  the  granite  or 
gneiss  rocks  described  in  the  preceding  chapter,  nor  volcanic, 
(these  latter  being  comparatively  rare,)  are  composed  of  heds^ 
not  of  homogeneous,  heaped  materials,  but  of  accumulated 
layers,  whether  of  rock  or  soil.  It  may  be  slate,  sandstone, 
limestone,  gravel,  or  clay  ;  but  whatever  the  substance,  it  is 
laid  in  layers,  not  in  a  mass.  These  layers  are  scarcely  ever 
horizontal,  and  may  slope  to  any  degree,  often  occurring 
vertical,  the  boldness  of  the  hill  outline  commonly  depending 
in  a  great  degree  on  their  inclination.  In  consequence  of 
this  division  into  beds,  every  mountain  will  have  two  great 
sets  of  lines  more  or  less  prevailing  in  its  contours— one 
indicative  of  the  surfaces  of  the  beds,  where  they  come  out 
from  under  each  other — and  the  other  indicative  of  the  ex- 
tremities or  edges  of  the  beds,  where  their  continuity  has 
been  interrupted.  And  these  two  great  sets  of  lines  will 
commonly  be  at  right  angles  with  each  other,  or  nearly  so. 
If  the  surface  of  the  bed  approach  a  horizontal  line,  its 
termination  will  approach  the  vertical,  and  this  is  the  most 
usual  and  ordinary  way  in  ^hich  a  precipice  is  produced. 

Farther,  in  almost  all  rocks  there  is  a  third  division  of  sub- 
L.  n  T.        ...    stance,  which  crives  to  their  beds  a  tendency 

^  2.  Farther  dm-  /  ^  ,  .  . 

sion  of  these  beds  to  Split  transversely  in  some  directions  rather 
than  others,  giving  rise  to  what  geologists  call 
"joints,"  and  throwing  the  whole  rock  into  blocks  more  or 
less  rhomboidal  ;  so  that  the  beds  are  not  terminated  by 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


43 


torn  or  ragged  edges,  but  by  faces  comparatively  smooth 
and  even,  usually  inclined  to  each  other  at  some  definite 
angle.  The  whole  arrangement  may  be  tolerably  represented 
by  the  bricks  of  a  wall,  whose  tiers  may  be  considered  as 
strata,  and  whose  sides  and  extremities  will  represent  the 
joints  by  which  those  strata  are  divided,  varying,  however, 
their  direction  in  different  rocks,  and  in  the  same  rock  under 
differing  circumstances. 

Finally,  in  the  slates,  grauwackes,  and  some  calcareous 
beds,  in  the  greater  number,  indeed,  of  mountain  rocks,  we 
find  another  most  conspicuous  feature  of  general  structure — 
,  ,  ^    the  lines  of  lamination,  which  divide  the  whole 

§  3.     And    by  ^  ^         ,  ' 

lines  of  lamina-  rock  iuto  an  infinite  number  of  delicate  plates 
or  layers,  sometimes  parallel  to  the  direction  or 
"  strike  "  of  the  strata,  oftener  obliquely  crossing  it,  and 
sometimes,  apparently,  altogether  independent  of  it,  main- 
taining a  consistent  and  unvarying  slope  through  a  series  of 
beds  contorted  and  undulating  in  every  conceivable  direc- 
tion. These  lines  of  lamination  extend  their  influence  to  the 
smallest  fragment,  causing  it  (as,  for  example,  common  roof- 
ing slate)  to  break  smooth  in  one  direction,  and  with  a  rag- 
ged edge  in  another,  and  marking  the  faces  of  the  beds  and 
joints  with  distinct  and  numberless  lines,  commonly  far  more 
conspicuous  in  a  near  view  than  the  larger  and  more  impor- 
tant divisions. 

Now,  it  cannot  be  too  carefully  held  in  mind,  in  exam- 
ining the  principles  of  mountain  structure,  that  nearly  all 
the  laws  of  nature  with  respect  to  external  form  are  rather 
§  4  Variety  and  ^^^^^^^^^  tendencies,  evidenced  by  a  plurality  of 
seeming  uncer-  instanccs,  than  imperative  necessities  complied 

tainty    under       •  i    i         n       n      •  •  i 

which  these  laws  With  by  all.    For  lustancc,  it  may  be  said  to  be 

are  manifested.  .  ,  ,  .  ,  i       i  i  /» 

a  universal  law  with  respect  to  the  boughs  of 
all  trees  that  they  incline  their  extremities  more  to  the  ground 
in  proportion  as  they  are  lower  on  the  trunk,  and  that  the 
higher  their  point  of  insertion  is,  the  more  they  share  in  the 
upward  tendency  of  the  trunk  itself.  But  yet  there  is  not 
a  single  group  of  boughs  in  any  one  tree  which  does  not 
show  exceptions  to  the  rule,  and  present  boughs  lower  in  in- 


44 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


sertion,  and  yet  steeper  in  inclination,  than  their  neighbors. 
Nor  is  this  defect  or  deformity,  but  the  result  of  the  constant 
habit  of  nature  to  carry  variety  into  her  very  principles,  and 
make  the  symmetry  and  beauty  of  her  laws  the  more  felt  by 
the  grace  and  accidentalism  v^ith  which  they  are  carried  out. 
No  one  familiar  with  foliage  could  doubt  for  an  instant  of 
the  necessity  of  giving  evidence  of  this  downward  tendency 
in  the  boughs  ;  but  it  would  be  nearly  as  great  an  offence 
against  truth  to  make  the  law  hold  good  with  every  indi- 
vidual branch,  as  not  to  exhibit  its  influence  on  the  majority. 
Now,  though  the  laws  of  mountain  form  are  more  rigid  and 
constant  than  those  of  vegetation,  they  are  subject  to  the 
same  species  of  exception  in  carrying  out.  Though  every 
mountain  has  these  great  tendencies  in  its  lines,  not  one  in 
a  thousand  of  those  lines  is  absolutely  consistent  with  and 
obedient  to  this  universal  tendency.  There  are  lines  in  every 
direction,  and  of  almost  every  kind,  but  the  sum  and  aggre- 
gate of  those  lines  will  invariably  indicate  the  universal  force 
and  influence  to  which  they  are  all  subjected  ;  and  of  these 
lines  there  will,  I  repeat,  be  two  principal  sets  or  classes, 
pretty  nearly  at  right  angles  with  each  other.  When  both 
are  inclined,  they  give  rise  to  peaks  or  ridges  ;  when  one  is 
nearly  horizontal  and  the  other  vertical,  to  table-lands  and 
precipices. 

This  then  is  the  broad  organization  of  all  hills,  modified 
afterwards  by  time  and  weather,  concealed  by  superincum- 
bent soil  and  vegetation,  and  ramified  into  minor  and  more 
delicate  details  in  a  way  presently  to  be  considered,  but 
nevertheless  universal  in  its  great  first  influence,  and  giving 
to  all  mountains  a  particular  cast  and  inclination  ;  like  the 
exertion  of  voluntary  power  in  a  definite  direction,  an  inter- 
nal spirit,  manifesting  itself  in  every  crag,  and  breathing  in 
every  slope,  flinging  and  forcing  the  mighty  mass  towards 
the  heaven  with  an  expression  and  an  energy  like  that  of  life. 

Now,  as  in  the  case  of  the  structure  of  the  central  peaks 
§  5.  The  perfect  described  above,  so  also  here,  if  I  had  to  give  a 
them  inTurner's  clcar  idea  of  this  Organization  of  the  lower  hills, 
Loch  coriskin.    where  it  is  seen  in  its  greatest  perfection,  with 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


45 


a  mere  view  to  geological  truth,  I  should  not  refer  to  any 
geological  drawings,  but  I  should  take  the  Loch  Coriskin 
of  Turner.  It  has  luckily  been  admirably  engraved,  and  for 
all  purposes  of  reasoning  or  form,  is  nearly  as  effective  in 
the  print  as  in  the  drawing.  Looking  at  any  group  of  the 
multitudinous  lines  which  make  up  this  mass  of  mountain, 
they  appear  to  be  running  anywhere  and  everywhere  ;  there 
are  none  parallel  to  each  other,  none  resembling  each  other 
for  a  moment  ;  yet  the  whole  mass  is  felt  at  once  to  be  com- 
posed with  the  most  rigid  parallelism,  the  surfaces  of  the 
beds  towards  the  left,  their  edges  or  escarpments  towards 
the  right.  In  the  centre,  near  the  top  of  the  ridge,  the  edge 
of  a  bed  is  beautifully  defined,  casting  its  shadow  on  the 
surface  of  the  one  beneath  it  ;  this  shadow  marking  by  three 
jags  the  chasms  caused  in  the  inferior  one  by  three  of  its 
parallel  joints.  Every  peak  in  the  distance  is  evidently  sub- 
ject to  the  same  great  influence,  and  the  evidence  is  com- 
pleted by  the  flatness  and  evenness  of  the  steep  surfaces  of 
the  beds  which  rise  out  of  the  lake  on  the  extreme  right, 
parallel  with  those  in  the  centre. 

Turn  to  Glencoe,  in  the  same  series  (the  Illustrations  to 
Scott).  We  have  in  the  Albs  of  mountain  on  the  left,  the 
most  beautiful  indication  of  vertical  beds  of  a  finely  lami- 
§6.  Glencoe  and  ^^^^^  rock,  terminated  by  even  joints  towards 
other  works.  the  precipicc  ;  while  the  whole  sweep  of  the 
landscape,  as  far  as  the  most  distant  peaks,  is  evidently  gov- 
erned by  one  great  and  simple  tendency  upwards  to  the  left, 
those  most  distant  peaks  themselves  lying  over  one  another 
in  the  same  direction.  In  the  Daphne  hunting  with  Leucip- 
pus,  the  mountains  on  the  left  descend  in  two  precipices  to 
the  plain,  each  of  which  is  formed  by  a  vast  escarpment  of 
the  beds  whose  upper  surfaces  are  shown  between  the  two 
cliffs,  sinking  with  an  even  slope  from  the  summit  of  the 
lowest  to  the  base  of  the  highest,  under  which  they  evidently 
descend,  being  exposed  in  this  manner  for  a  length  of  five  or 
six  miles.  The  same  structure  is  shown,  though  wnth  more 
complicated  development,  on  the  left  of  the  Loch  Katrine. 
But  perhaps  the  finest  instance,  or  at  least  the  most  marked 


46 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS, 


of  all,  will  be  found  in  the  exquisite  Mount  Lebanon,  with  the 
convent  of  St.  Antonio,  engraved  in  Finden's  Bible.  There 
„  „    _     .  „    is  not  one  shade  nor  touch  on  the  rock  which  is 

§  7.    Especially  ... 

the  Mount  Leba-  not  indicative  of  the  lines  of  stratification  ;  and 
every  fracture  is  marked  with  a  straightforward 
simplicity  which  makes  you  feel  that  the  artist  has  nothing 
in  his  heart  but  a  keen  love  of  the  pure  unmodified  truth  ; 
there  is  no  effort  to  disguise  the  repetition  of  forms,  no  ap- 
parent aim  at  artificial  arrangement  or  scientific  grouping  ; 
the  rocks  are  laid  one  above  another  with  unhesitating  de- 
cision ;  every  shade  is  understood  in  a  moment,  felt  as  a  dark 
side,  or  a  shadow,  or  a  fissure,  and  you  may  step  from  one 
block  or  bed  to  another  until  you  reach  the  mountain  sum- 
mit. And  yet,  though  there  seems  no  effort  to  disguise  the 
repetition  of  forms,  see  how  it  is  disguised,  just  as  nature 
would  have  done  it,  by  the  perpetual  play  and  changefulness 
of  the  very  lines  which  appear  so  parallel  ;  now  bending  a 
little  up,  or  down,  or  losing  themselves,  or  running  into  each 
other,  the  old  story  over  and  over  again, — infinity.  For  here 
is  still  the  great  distinction  between  Turner's  work  and  that 
of  a  common  artist.  Hundreds  could  have  given  the  paral- 
lelism of  blocks,  but  none  but  •biself  could  have  done  so 
without  the  actual  repetition  of  a  single  line  or  feature. 

Now  compare  with  this  the  second  mountain  from  the  left  in 
the  picture  of  Salvator,  No.  220  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery.  The 
whole  is  first  laid  in  with  a  very  delicate  and  masterly  gray, 
rio:ht  in  tone,  asrreeable  in  color,  quite  unobiec- 

§  8.    Compared  n  i       •      '  "D   4-  U        '    ^U'  A 

with  the  work  of  tiouablc  lor  a  beginning.  But  now  is  this  made 
Salvator ,  .^^^  rock  ?    On  the  light  side  Salvator  gives  us  a 

multitude  of  touches,  all  exactly  like  one  another,  and  there- 
fore, it  is  to  be  hoped,  quite  patterns  of  perfection  in  rock- 
drawing,  since  they  are  too  good  to  be  even  varied.  Every 
touch  is  a  dash  of  the  brush,  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  shape 
of  a  comma,  round  and  bright  at  the  top,  convex  on  its  right 
side,  concave  on  its  left,  and  melting  off  at  the  bottom  into  the 
gray.  These  are  laid  in  confusion  one  above  another,  some 
paler,  some  brighter,  some  scarcely  discernible,  but  all  alike 
in  shape.    Now,  I  am  not  aware  myself  of  any  particular 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


47 


object,  either  in  earth  or  heaven,  which  these  said  touches  do 
at  all  resemble  or  portray.  I  do  not,  however,  assert  that 
they  may  not  resemble  something — feathers,  perhaps  ;  but  I 
do  say,  and  say  with  perfect  confidence,  that  they  may  be 
Chinese  for  rocks,  or  Sanscrit  for  rocks,  or  symbolical  of 
rocks  in  some  mysterious  and  undeveloped  character  ;  but 
that  they  are  no  more  like  rocks  than  the  brush  that  made 
them.  The  dark  sides  appear  to  embrace  and  overhang  the 
lights  ;  they  cast  no  shadows,  are  broken  by  no  fissures,  and 
furnish,  as  food  for  contemplation,  nothing  but  a  series  of 
concave  curves. 

Yet  if  we  go  on  to  No.  269,  we  shall  find  something  a  great 
deal  worse.  I  can  believe  Gaspar  Poussin  capable  of  com- 
mitting as  much  sin  against  nature  as  most  people  ;  but  I 
certainly  do  not  suspect  him  of  having  had  any  hand  in  this 
§9.  And  of  thing,  at  least  after  he  was  ten  years  old.  Nev- 
Poussin.  ertheless,  it  shows  what  he  is  supposed  capable 

of  by  his  admirers,  and  will  serve  for  a  broad  illustration  of  all 
those  absurdities  which  he  himself  in  a  less  degree,  and  with 
feeling  and  thought  to  atone  for  them,  perpetually  commits. 
Take  the  white  bit  of  rock  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river, 
just  above  the  right  arm  of  the  Niobe,  and  tell  me  of  what 
the  square  green  daubs  of  the  brush  at  its  base  can  be  con- 
jectured to  be  typical.  Rocks  with  pale-brown  light  sides, 
and  rich  green  dark  sides,  are  a  phenomenon  perhaps  occur- 
ring in  some  of  the  improved  passages  of  nature  among  our 
Cumberland  lakes  ;  where  I  remember  once  having  seen  a 
bed  of  roses,  of  peculiar  magnificence,  tastefully  and  artisti- 
cally assisted  in  effect  by  the  rocks  above  it  being  painted 
pink  to  match  ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  they  are  a  kind  of 
thing  which  the  clumsiness  and  false  taste  of  nature  can  be 
supposed  frequently  to  produce  ;  even  granting  that  these 
same  sweeps  of  the  brush  could,  by  any  exercise  of  the  im- 
agination, be  conceived  representative  of  a  dark,  or  any 
other  side,  which  is  far  more  than  I  am  inclined  to  grant  ; 
seeing  that  there  is  no  cast  shadow,  no  appearance  of  re- 
flected light,  of  substance,  or  of  character  on  the  edge  ; 
nothing,  in  short,  but  pure,  staring  green  paint,  scratched 


48 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS, 


heavily  on  a  white  ground.  Nor  is  there  a  touch  in  the  pict- 
ure more  expressive.  All  are  the  mere  dragging  of  the 
brush  here  and  there  and  everyv^here,  w^ithout  meaning  or 
intention  ;  winding,  twisting,  zigzagging,  doing  anything  in 
fact  which  may  serve  to  break  up  the  light  and  destroy  its 
breadth,  without  bestowing  in  return  one  hint  or  shadow  of 
anything  like  form.  This  picture  is,  indeed,  an  extraordi- 
nary case,  but  the  Salvator  above  mentioned  is  a  character- 
istic and  exceedingly  favorable  example  of  the  usual  mode 
of  mountain  drawing  among  the  old  landscape  painters.* 
Their  admirers  may  be  challenged  to  bring  forward  a  single 
instance  of  their  expressing,  or  even  appearing  to  have 
noted,  the  great  laws  of  structure  above  explained.  Their 
hills  are,  without  exception,  irregular  earthy  heaps,  without 
energy  or  direction  of  any  kind,  marked  with  shapeless  shad- 
ows and  meaningless  lines  ;  sometimes,  indeed,  where  great 
sublimity  has  been  aimed  at,  approximating  to  the  pure  and 
exalted  ideal  of  rocks,  which,  in  the  most  artistical  speci- 
mens of  China  cups  and  plates,  we  see  suspended  from  aerial 
pagodas,  or  balanced  upon  peacocks'  tails,  but  never  warrant- 
ing even  the  wildest  theorist  in  the  conjecture  that  their 
perpetrators  had  ever  seen  a  mountain  in  their  lives.  Let 
us,  however,  look  farther  into  the  modifications  of  character 
by  which  nature  conceals  the  regularity  of  her  first  plan  ; 
for  although  all  mountains  are  organized  as  we  have  seen, 
their  organization  is  always  modified,  and  often  nearly  con- 
cealed, by  changes  wrought  upon  them  by  external  influence. 

We  ought,  when  speaking  of  their  stratification,  to  have 
noticed  another  great  law,  which  must,  however,  be  under- 
stood with  greater  latitude  of  application  than  any  of  the 
§  10.  Effects  of  others,  as  very  far  from  imperative  or  constant 
cnce^^on  moun-  particular  cases,  though  universal  in  its  influ- 
tain  form.  ^jjce  on  the  aggregate  of  all.  It  is  that  the  lines 
by  which  rocks  are  terminated,  are  always  steeper  and  more 

*  I  have  above  exhausted  all  terms  of  vituperation,  and  probably  dis- 
gusted the  reader  ;  and  yet  I  have  not  spoken  with  enough  severity :  I 
know  not  any  terms  of  blame  that  are  bitter  enough  to  chastise  justly 
the  mountain  drawings  of  Salvator  in  the  pictures  of  the  Pitti  Palace. 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


49 


inclined  to  the  vertical  as  we  approach  the  summit  of  the 
mountain.  Thousands  of  cases  are  to  be  found  in  every  group, 
of  rocks  and  lines  horizontal  at  the  top  of  the  mountain  and 
vertical  at  the  bottom  ;  but  they  are  still  the  exceptions,  and 
the  average  out  of  a  given  number  of  lines  in  any  rock  forma- 
tion whatsoever,  will  be  found  increasing  in  perpendicularity 
as  they  rise.  Consequently  the  great  skeleton  lines  of  rock 
outline  are  always  concave  ;  that  is  to  say,  all  distant  ranges 
of  rocky  mountain  approximate  more  or  less  to  a  series  of 
concave  curves,  meeting  in  peaks,  like  a  range  of  posts  with 
chains  hanging  between.  I  do  not  say  that  convex  forms 
will  not  perpetually  occur,  but  that  the  tendency  of  the  ma- 
jority will  always  be  to  assume  the  form  of  sweeping,  curved 
valleys,  with  angular  peaks  ;  not  of  rounded  convex  summits, 
with  angular  valleys.  This  structure  is  admirably  exempli- 
fied in  the  second  vignette  in  Rogers's  Italy,  and  in  Piacenza. 

But  although  this  is  the  primary  form  of  all  hills,  and  that 
which  will  always  cut  against  the  sky  in  every  distant  range, 
there  are  two  great  influences  whose  tendency  is  directly  the 
reverse,  and  which  modify,  to  a  great  degree,  both  the  evi- 
§  11.  The  gentle  dences  of  Stratification  and  this  external  form, 
by^aqueous^^TO^  These  are  aqueous  erosion  and  disintegration. 

The  latter  only  is  to  be  taken  into  consideration 
when  we  have  to  do  with  minor  features  of  crags  ;  but  the 
former  is  a  force  in  constant  action — of  the  very  utmost  im- 
portance— a  force  to  which  one-half  of  the  great  outlines  of 
all  mountains  is  entirely  owing,  and  which  has  much  influence 
upon  every  one  of  their  details. 

Now  the  tendency  of  aqueous  action  over  a  large  elevated 
surface  is  always  to  make  that  surface  symmetrically  and 
evenly  convex  and  dome-like,  sloping  gradually  more  and 
more  as  it  descends,  until  it  reaches  an  inclination  of  about 
40^,  at  which  slope  it  will  descend  perfectly  straight  to  the 
valley  ;  for  at  that  slope  the  soil  washed  from  above  will  ac- 
cumulate upon  the  hillside,  as  it  cannot  lie  in  steeper  beds. 
This  influence,  then,  is  exercised  more  or  less  on  all  moun- 
tains, with  greater  or  less  effect  in  proportion  as  the  rock  is 
harder  or  softer,  more  or  less  liable  to  decomposition,  more 
Vol.  II.— 4 


50 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


or  less  recent  in  date  of  elevation,  and  more  or  less  charac- 
teristic in  its  original  forms  ;  but  it  universally  induces,  in 
the  lower  parts  of  mountains,  a  series  of  the  most  exquisitely 
symmetrical  convex  curves,  terminating,  as  they  descend  to 
the  valley,  in  uniform  and  uninterrupted  slopes  ;  this  sym- 
metrical structure  being  perpetually  interrupted  by  cliffs 
and  projecting  masses,  which  give  evidence  of  the  interior 
parallelism  of  the  mountain  anatomy,  but  which  interrupt  the 
convex  forms  more  frequently  by  rising  out  of  them,  than 
by  indentation. 

There  remains  but  one  fact  more  to  be  noticed.  All 
mountains,  in  some  degree,  but  especially  those  which  are 
composed  of  soft  or  decomposing  substance,  are  delicately 
§  12   And  the  Symmetrically  furrowed  by  the  descent  of 

efifect  of  the  ac-  streams.    The  traces  of  their  action  commence 

tion  of  torrents.  . 

at  the  very  summits,  fine  as  threads,  and  mul- 
titudinous, like  the  uppermost  branches  of  a  delicate  tree. 
They  unite  in  groups  as  they  descend,  concentrating  grad- 
ually into  dark  undulating  ravines,  into  which  the  body  of 
the  mountain  descends  on  each  side,  at  first  in  a  convex 
curve,  but  at  the  bottom  with  the  same  uniform  slope  on 
each  side  which  it  assumes  in  its  final  descent  to  the  pUin, 
unless  the  rock  be  very  hard,  when  the  stream  will  cut  itself 
a  vertical  chasm  at  the  bottom  of  the  curves,  and  there  will 
be  no  even  slope.*  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  rock  be  very 
soft,  the  slopes  will  increase  rapidly  in  height  and  depth 
from  day  to  day  ;  washed  away  at  the  bottom  and  crum- 
bling at  the  top,  until,  by  their  reaching  the  summit  of  the 
masses  of  rock  which  separate  the  active  torrents,  the  whole 
mountain  is  divided  into  a  series  of  penthouse-like  ridges^, 
all  guiding  to  its  summit,  and  becoming  steeper  and  nar- 
rower as  they  ascend  ;  these  in  their  turn  being  divided  by 
similar,  but  smaller  ravines — caused  in  the  same  manner — ^ 
into  the  same  kind  of  ridges  ;   and  these  again  by  another 

*  Some  terrific  cuts  and  chasms  of  this  kind  occur  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Valais,  from  Sion  to  Briey.  The  torrent  from  the  great  Aletsch 
glacier  descends  through  one  of  them.  Elsewhere  chasms  may  be 
found  as  narrow,  but  few  so  narrow  and  deep. 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS, 


51 


series,  the  arrangement  being  carried  finer  and  farther  ac- 
cordins:  to  the  softness  of  the  rock.  The  south  side  of  Sad- 
dleback,  in  Cumberland,  is  a  characteristic  example  ;  and 
the  Montagne  du  Tacondy,  in  Chamonix,  a  noble  instance 
of  one  of  these  ridges  or  buttresses,  with  all  its  subdivisions, 
on  a  colossal  scale. 

Now  we  wish  to  draw  especial  attention  to  the  broad  and 
bold  simplicity  of  mass,  and  the  excessive  complication  of 
details,  which  influences  like  these,  acting  on  an  enormous 
§13.  The  exceed-  scalc,  must  inevitably  produce  in  all  mountain 
contoi iTcau^ d by  groups  ;  bccause  each  individual  part  and  prora- 
these  influences,  outory,  being  Compelled  to  assume  the  same 
symmetrical  curves  as  its  neighbors,  and  to  descend  at  pre- 
cisely the  same  slope  to  the  valley,  falls  in  with  their  pre- 
vailing lines,  and  becomes  a  part  of  a  great  and  harmonious 
whole,  instead  of  an  unconnected  and  discordant  individual. 
It  is  true  that  each  of  these  members  has  its  own  touches  of 
specific  character,  its  own  projecting  crags  and  peculiar  hol- 
lows ;  but  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  its  lines  will  be  such 
as  unite  with,  though  they  do  not  repeat,  those  of  its  neigh- 
bors, and  carry  out  the  evidence  of  one  great  influence  and 
spirit  to  the  limits  of  the  scene.  This  effort  is  farther  aided 
by  the  original  unity  and  connection  of  the  rocks  them- 
selves, which  though  it  often  may1)e  violently  interrupted, 
is  never  without  evidence  of  existence  ;  for  the  very  inter- 
ruption itself  forces  the  eye  to  feel  that  there  is  something 
to  be  interrupted,  a  sympathy  and  similarity  of  lines  and 
fractures,  which,  however  full  of  variety  and  change  of  direc- 
tion, never  lose  the  appearance  of  symmetry  of 

§  14.  And  mul-  ,  .     -,  ^  ^  ^        i  t 

tipiicity  of  feat-  One  kind  or  another.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  these  great  sympa- 
thizing masses  are  not  one  mountain,  but  a  thousand  moun- 
tains ;  that  they  are  originally  composed  of  a  multitude  of 
separate  eminences,  hewn  and  chiselled  indeed  into  associ- 
ating form,  but  each  retaining  still  its  marked  points  and 
features  of  character, — that  each  of  these  individual  mem- 
bers has,  by  the  very  process  which  assimilated  it  to  the 
rest,  been  divided  and  subdivided  into  equally  multitudinous 


52 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


groups  of  minor  mountains  ;  finally,  that  the  whole  compli- 
cated system  is  interrupted  forever  and  ever  by  daring  mani- 
festations of  the  inward  mountain  will — by  the  precipice 
which  has  submitted  to  no  modulation  of  the  torrent,  and 
the  peak  which  has  bowed  itself  to  no  terror  of  the  storm. 
Hence  we  see  that  the  same  imperative  laws  which  require 
perfect  simplicity  of  mass,  require  infinite  and  termless  com- 
plication of  detail, — that  there  will  not  be  an  inch  nor  a 
hairbreadth  of  the  gigantic  heap  which  has  not  its  touch  of 
separate  character,  its  own  peculiar  curve,  stealing  out  for 
an  instant  and  then  melting  into  the  common  line  ;  felt  for 
a  moment  by  the  blue  mist  of  the  hollow  beyond,  then  lost 
when  it  crosses  the  enlightened  slope, — that  all  this  multi- 
plicity will  be  grouped  into  larger  divisions,  each  felt  by 
their  increasing  aerial  perspective,  and  their  instants  of  indi- 
vidual form,  these  into  larger,  and  these  into  larger  still, 
until  all  are  merged  in  the  great  impression  and  prevailing 
energy  of  the  two  or  three  vast  dynasties  which  divide  the 
king-dom  of  the  scene. 

There  is  no  vestige  nor  shadow  of  approach  to  such  treat- 
ment as  this  in  the  whole  compass  of  ancient  art.  Whoever 
the  master,  his  hills,  wherever  he  has  attempted  them,  have 
o        i-T.       1    not  the  slisrhtest  trace  of  association  or  con- 

§  15.  Both  utterly  ^  * 

neglected  in  an-  ncction  ;  they  are  separate,  conflicting,  con- 
fused, petty  and  paltry  heaps  of  earth  ;  there 
is  no  marking  of  distances  or  divisions  in  their  body  ;  they 
may  have  holes  in  them,  but  no  valleys, — protuberances  and 
excrescences,  but  no  parts  ;  and  in  consequence  are  in- 
variably diminutive  and  contemptible  in  their  whole  appear- 
ance and  impression. 

But  look  at  the  mass  of  mountain  on  the  right  in  Turner's 
Daphne  hunting  with  Leucippus.  It  is  simple,  broad,  and 
united  as  one  surge  of  a  swelling  sea  ;  it  rises  in  an  un- 
§  16.  The  fidelity  broken  line  along  the  valley,  and  lifts  its  prom- 
TarSsi)aphne  ontoHes  with  an  equal  slope.  But  it  contains 
and  Leucippus.  -^^  j^^^^  ^^^^  thousand  hiUs.  There  is  not  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  of  its  surface  without  its  suggestion 
of  increasing  distance  and  individual  form.    First,  on  the 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS, 


53 


right,  you  have  a  range  of  tower-like  precipices,  the  clinging 
wood  climbing  along  their  ledges  and  cresting  their  summits, 
white  waterfalls  gleaming  through  its  leaves  ;  not,  as  in 
Claude's  scientific  ideals,  poured  in  vast  torrents  over  the 
top,  and  carefully  keeping  all  the  way  down  on  the  most 
projecting  parts  of  the  sides  ;  but  stealing  down,  traced 
from  point  to  point,  through  shadow  after  shadow,  by  their 
evanescent  foam  and  flashing  light, — here  a  wreath,  and 
there  a  ray, — through  the  deep  chasms  and  hollow  ravines, 
out  of  which  rise  the  soft  rounded  slopes  of  mightier  moun- 
tain, surge  beyond  surge,  immense  and  numberless,  of  del- 
icate and  gradual  curve,  accumulating  in  the  sky  until 
their  garment  of  forest  is  exchanged  for  the  shadowy  fold 
of  slumbrous  morning  cloud,  above  which  the  utmost  silver 
peak  shines  islanded  and  alone.  Put  what  mountain  paint- 
ing you  will  beside  this,  of  any  other  artist,  and  its  heights 
will  look  like  mole-hills  in  comparison,  because  it  will 
not  have  the  unity  nor  the  multiplicity  which  are  in  nature, 
and  with  Turner,  the  signs  of  size. 

Again,  in  the  Avalanche  and  Inundation,  we  have  for  the 
whole  subject  nothing  but  one  vast  bank  of  united  moun- 
tain, and  one  stretch  of  uninterrupted  valley.  Though  the 
„      .     .        bank  is  broken  into  promontory  beyond  prom- 

§  17.  And  in  the  ^  i  i 

Avalanche   and  ontorv,  peak  abovo  peak,  each  the  abode  of  a 

Inundation.  *^  ,  ^  -  p  t  i 

new  tempest,  the  arbiter  oi  a  separate  desola- 
tion, divided  from  each  other  by  the  rushing  of  the  snow,  by 
the  motion  of  the  storm,  by  the  thunder  of  the  torrent  ;  the 
mighty  unison  of  their  dark  and  lofty  line,  the  brotherhood 
of  ages,  is  preserved  unbroken  ;  and  the  broad  valley  at 
their  feet,  though  measured  league  after  league  away  by  a 
thousand  passages  of  sun  and  darkness,  and  marked  with 
fate  beyond  fate  of  hamlet  and  of  inhabitant,  lies  yet  but  as 
a  straight  and  narrow  channel,  a  filling  furrow  before  the 
flood.  Whose  work  will  you  compare  with  this  ?  Salvator's 
gray  heaps  of  earth,  seven  yards  high,  covered  with  bunchy 
brambles,  that  w^e  may  be  under  no  mistake  about  the  size, 
thrown  about  at  random  in  a  little  plain,  beside  a  zigzagging 
river,  just  wide  enough  to  admit  of  the  possibility  of  there 


54 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS, 


being  fish  in  it,  and  with  banks  just  broad  enough  to  allow 
the  respectable  angler  or  hermit  to  sit  upon  them  con- 
veniently in  the  foreground  ?  Is  there  more  of  nature  in 
such  paltriness,  think  you,  than  in  the  valley  and  the  moun- 
tain which  bend  to  each  other  like  the  trough  of  the  sea  ; 
with  the  flank  of  the  one  swept  in  one  surge  into  the  height 
of  heaven,  until  the  pine  forests  lie  on  its  immensity  like  the 
shadows  of  narrow  clouds,  and  the  hollow  of  the  other  laid 
league  by  league  into  the  blue  of  the  air,  until  its  white 
villages  flash  in  the  distance  only  like  the  fall  of  a  sunbeam  ? 

But  let  us  examine  by  what  management  of  the  details 
themselves  this  wholeness  and  vastness  of  effect  are  given. 
We  have  just  seen  (§  11)  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  slope 
§  18  The  rarity  ^  mountain,  not  actually  a  precipice  of  rock, 
a^^huis  of  stee^  cxcecd  35^  or  40^,  and  that  by  far  the  greater 
slopes  or  high  part  of  all  hill-surface  is  composed  of  graceful 
precipices.  curvcs  of  much  Icss  degree  than  this,  reaching 
40°  only  as  their  ultimate  and  utmost  inclination.  It  must 
be  farther  observed  that  the  interruptions  to  such  curves,  by 
precipices  or  steps,  are  always  small  in  proportion  to  the 
slopes  themselves.  Precipices  rising  vertically  more  than  100 
feet  are  very  rare  among  the  secondary  hills  of  which  we  are 
speaking.  I  am  not  aware  of  any  cliff  in  England  or  Wales 
where  a  plumb-line  can  swing  clear  for  200  feet  ;  and  even 
although  sometimes,  with  intervals,  breaks,  and  steps,  we 
get  perhaps  800  feet  of  a  slope  of  60°  or  70°,  yet  not  only 
are  these  cases  very  rare,  but  even  these  have  little  influence 
on  the  great  contours  of  a  mountain  4000  or  5000  feet  in  ele- 
vation, being  commonly  balanced  by  intervals  of  ascent  not 
exceeding  6°  or  8°.  The  result  of  which  is,  first,  that  the 
peaks  and  precipices  of  a  mountain  appear  as  little  more  than 
jags  or  steps  emerging  from  its  great  curves  ;  and,  secondly, 
that  the  bases  of  all  hills  are  enormously  extensive  as  com- 
pared with  their  elevation,  so  that  there  must  be  always  a 
horizontal  distance  between  the  observer  and  the  summit  five 
or  six  times  exceeding  the  perpendicular  one. 

Now  it  is  evident,  that  whatever  the  actual  angle  of  eleva- 
tion of  the  mountain  may  be,  every  exhibition  of  this  hori- 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


55 


zontal  distance  between  us  and  the  summit  is  an  addition  to 
its  height,  and  of  course  to  its  impressiveness  ;  while  every 
endeavor  to  exhibit  its  slope  as  steep  and  sud- 

§  19.  And  conse-  ....  /.  •  • 

quent  expression  den.  is  diminution  at  once  of  its  distance  and 

of  horizontal  dis-  .  . 

tance  in  their  as-  elevatiou.  In  consequence  nature  is  constantly 
endeavoring  to  impress  upon  us  this  horizontal 
distance,  which,  even  in  spite  of  all  her  means  of  manifesting 
it,  we  are  apt  to  forget  or  underestimate  ;  and  all  her  noblest 
effects  depend  on  the  full  measurement  and  feeling  of  it. 
And  it  is  to  the  abundant  and  marvellous  expression  of  it  by 
Turner,  that  I  would  direct  especial  attention,  as  being  that 
which  is  in  itself  demonstrative  of  the  highest  knowledge 
and  power — knowledge,  in  the  constant  use  of  lines  of  sub- 
dued slope  in  preference  to  steep  or  violent  ascents,  and  in 
the  perfect  subjection  of  all  such  features,  when  they  neces- 
sarily occur,  to  the  larger  masses  ;  and  power,  in  the  inimit- 
able statements  of  retiring  space  by  mere  painting  of  sur- 
face details,  without  the  aid  of  crossing  shadows,  divided 
forms,  or  any  other  artifice. 

The  Caudebec,  in  the  Rivers  of  France,  is  a  fine  instance 
of  almost  every  fact  which  we  have  been  pointing  out.  We 
have  in  it,  first,  the  clear  expression  of  what  takes  place  con- 
§20  Full  state-  ^tantly  among  hills, — that  the  river,  as  it  passes 
ment  of  all  these  throusrh  the  vallcv,  will  fall  backwards  and  for- 

facts  in  various  ^  .  . 

works  of  Turner,  wards  from  Side  to  side,  lying:  first,  if  I  may  so 

Caudebec  etc.  »/     o  j  j 

speak,  with  all  its  weight  against  the  hills  on 
the  one  side,  and  then  against  those  on  the  other  ;  so  that, 
as  here  it  is  exquisitely  told,  in  each  of  its  circular  sweeps 
the  whole  force  of  its  current  is  brought  deep  and  close  to 
the  bases  of  the  hills,  while  the  water  on  the  side  next  the 
plain  is  shallow,  deepening  gradually.  In  consequence  of 
this,  the  hills  are  cut  away  at  their  bases  by  the  current,  so 
that  their  slopes  are  interrupted  by  precipices  mouldering 
to  the  water.  Observe  first,  how  nobly  Turner  has  given  us 
the  perfect  unity  of  the  whole  mass  of  hill,  making  us  under- 
stand that  every  ravine  in  it  has  been  cut  gradually  by 
streams.  The  first  eminence,  beyond  the  city,  is  not  disjoint- 
ed from,  or  independent  of,  the  one  succeeding,  but  evident- 


56 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


]y  part  of  the  same  whole,  originally  united,  separated  only 
by  the  action  of  the  stream  between.  The  association  of  the 
second  and  third  is  still  more  clearly  told,  for  we  see  that 
there  has  been  a  little  longitudinal  valley  running  along  the 
brow  of  their  former  united  mass,  which,  after  the  ravine 
had  been  cut  between,  formed  the  two  jags  which  Turner  has 
given  us  at  the  same  point  in  each  of  their  curves.  This 
great  triple  group  has,  however,  been  originally  distinct  from 
those  beyond  it  ;  for  we  see  that  these  latter  are  only  the 
termination  of  the  enormous  even  slope,  which  appears  again 
on  the  extreme  right,  having  been  interrupted  by  the  rise  of 
the  near  hills.  Observe  how  the  descent  of  the  whole  series 
is  kept  gentle  and  subdued,  never  suffered  to  become  steep 
except  where  it  has  been  cut  away  by  the  river,  the  sudden 
precipice  caused  by  which  is  exquisitely  marked  in  the  last 
two  promontories,  where  they  are  defined  against  the  bright 
horizon  ;  and,  finally,  observe  how,  in  the  ascent  of  the  near- 
est eminence  beyond  the  city,  without  one  cast  shadow  or 
any  division  of  distances,  every  yard  of  surface  is  felt  to  be 
retiring  by  the  mere  painting  of  its  details, — how  we  are 
permitted  to  walk  up  it,  and  along  its  top,  and  are  carried, 
before  we  are  half  way  up,  a  league  or  two  forward  into  the 
picture.  The  difficulty  of  doing  this,  however,  can  scarcely 
be  appreciated  except  by  an  artist. 

I  do  not  mean  to  assert  that  this  great  painter  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  geological  laws  and  facts  he  has  thus  illus- 
trated ;  I  am  not  aware  whether  he  be  or  not  ;   I  merely 
wish  to  demonstrate,  in  points  admittino^  of 

§  21.  The  use  of    ^  .  ,        .  '  ^  ,  .  «  , 

considering  geo-  demonstration,  that  intense  observation  or,  and 
logical  truths.  ^i^'iGt  adherence  to  truth,  which  it  is  impossible 
to  demonstrate  in  its  less  tangible  and  more  delicate  mani- 
festations. However  I  may  feel  the  truth  of  every  touch 
and  line,  I  ca^unot  prove  truth,  except  in  large  and  general 
features  ;  and  I  leave  it  to  the  arbitration  of  every  man's 
reason,  whether  it  be  not  likely  that  the  painter  who  is  thus 
so  rigidly  faithful  in  great  things  that  every  one  of  his  pict- 
ures might  be  the  illustration  of  a  lecture  on  the  physical 
sciences,  is  not  likely  to  be  faithful  also  in  small. 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAIN'S.  57 


Honfleur,  and  the  scene  between  Clairmont  and  Mauves, 
supply  us  with  farther  instances  of  the  same  grand  simplicity 
of  treatment  ;  and  the  latter  is  especially  remarkable  for  its 
expression  of  the  furrowing  of  the  hills  by  descending  water, 
in  the  complete  roundness  and  symmetry  of  their  curves,  and 
§22.  Expression  in  the  delicate  and  sharp  shadows  which  are 
face'^bT^Turnlr  cast  in  the  Undulating  ravines.  It  is  interest- 
contrasted^with  compare  with  either  of  these  noble  works 

Claude.  gm^ij  jjiiis  as  those  of  Claude,  on  the  left  of  the 

picture  marked  260  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery.  There  is  no 
detail  nor  surface  in  one  of  them  ;  not  an  inch  of  ground  for 
us  to  stand  upon  ;  we  must  either  sit  astride  upon  the  edge, 
or  fall  to  the  bottom.  I  could  not  point  to  a  more  complete 
instance  of  mountain  calumniation  ;  nor  can  I  oppose  it  more 
completely,  in  every  circumstance,  than  with  the  Honfleur  of 
Turner,  already  mentioned  ;  in  which  there  is  not  one  edge 
nor  division  admitted,  and  yet  we  are  permitted  to  climb  up 
the  hill  from  the  town,  and  pass  far  into  the  mist  along  its 
top,  and  so  descend  mile  after  mile  along  the  ridge  to  sea- 
ward, until,  without  one  break  in  the  magnificent  unity  of 
progress,  we  are  carried  down  to  the  utmost  horizon.  And 
contrast  the  brown  paint  of  Claude,  which  you  can  only 
guess  to  be  meant  for  rock  or  spii  because  it  is  brown, 
with  Turner's  profuse,  pauseless  richness  of  feature,  carried 
through  all  the  enormous  space — the  unmeasured  wealth  of 
exquisite  detail,  over  which  the  mind  can  dwell,  and  walk, 
and  wander,  and  feast  forever,  without  finding  either  one 
break  in  its  vast  simplicity,  or  one  vacuity  in  its  exhaustless 
splendor. 

But  these,  and  hundreds  of  others  which  it  is  sin  not  to 
dwell  upon — wooded  hills  and  undulating  moors  of  North 
England — rolling  surges  of  park  and  forest  of  the  South — 
-  „^  soft  and  vine-clad  ransres  of  French  coteaux, 

§  23.  The  same  ...  . 

moderation   of  casting"  their  obliquc  shadows  on  silver  leaoues 

elope  in  the  con-      p     ^        >  •  it  i«  t 

tours  of  his  hiyh-  oi  glancing  rivers, — and  olive-whitened  prom- 

er  hills.  .  /.     *  i  i     \  •  i  • 

ontories  ot  Alp  and  Apennine,  are  only  in- 
stances of  Turner's  management  of  the  lower  and  softer  hills. 
In  the  bolder  examples  of  his  powers,  where  he  is  dealing 


58 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


with  lifted  masses  of  enormous  mountain,  we  shall  still  find 
him  as  cautious  in  his  use  of  violent  slopes  or  vertical  lines, 
and  still  as  studied  in  his  expression  of  retiring  surface.  We 
never  get  to  the  top  of  one  of  his  hills  without  being  tired 
with  our  walk  ;  not  by  the  steepness,  observe,  but  by  the 
stretch  ;  for  we  are  carried  up  towards  the  heaven  by  such 
delicate  gradation  of  line,  that  we  scarcely  feel  that  we  have 
left  the  earth  before  we  find  ourselves  among  the  clouds. 
The  Skiddaw,  in  the  illustrations  to  Scott,  is  a  noble  instance 
of  this  majestic  moderation.  The  mountain  lies  in  the 
morning  light,  like  a  level  vapor  ;  its  gentle  lines  of  ascent 
are  scarcely  felt  by  the  eye  ;  it  rises  without  effort  or  exer- 
tion, by  the  mightiness  of  its  mass  ;  every  slope  is  full  of 
slumber  ;  and  we  know  not  how  it  has  been  exalted,  until 
we  find  it  laid  as  a  floor  for  the  walking  of  the  eastern  clouds. 
So  again  in  the  Fort  Augustus,  where  the  whole  elevation 
of  the  hills  depends  on  the  soft  lines  of  swelling  surface 
which  undulate  back  through  leagues  of  mist  carrying  us 
unawares  higher  and  higher  above  the  diminished  lake,  until, 
when  we  are  all  but  exhausted  with  the  endless  distance,  the 
mountains  make  their  last  spring,  and  bear  us,  in  that  in- 
stant of  exertion,  half  way  to  heaven. 

I  ought  perhaps  rather  to  have  selected,  as  instances  of 
mountain  form,  such  elaborate  works  as  the  Oberwesel  or 
Lake  of  Uri,  but  I  have  before  expressed  my  dislike  of 
§24.  The  peculiar  Speaking  of  such  magnificent  pictures  as  these 
vSigithig^  the  fc^y  parts.  And  indeed  all  proper  consideration 
truths^ o/hm  out-  ^^^^  drawing  of  Turner  must  be  deferred 

1^^^-  until  we  are  capable  of  testing  it  by  the  prin- 

ciples of  beauty  ;  for,  after  all,  the  most  essential  qualities 
of  line, — those  on  which  all  right  delineation  of  mountain 
character  must  depend,  are  those  which  are  only  to  be  ex- 
plained or  illustrated  by  appeals  to  our  feeling  of  what  is 
beautiful.  There  is  an  expression  and  a  feeling  about  all  the 
hill  lines  of  nature,  which  I  think  I  shall  be  able,  hereafter, 
to  explain  ;  but  it  is  not  to  be  reduced  to  line  and  rule — not 
to  be  measured  by  angles  or  described  by  compasses — not  to 
be  chipped  out  by  the  geologist,  or  equated  by  the  mathe- 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS, 


59 


matician.  It  is  intangible,  incalculable — a  thing  to  be  felt, 
not  understood — to  be  loved,  not  comprehended — a  music  of 
the  eyes,  a  melody  of  the  heart,  whose  truth  is  known  only 
by  its  sweetness. 

I  can  scarcely,  without  repeating  myself  to  tediousness, 
enter  at  present  into  proper  consideration  of  the  mountain 
drawing  of  other  modern  painters.  We  have,  fortunately, 
§  25.  Works  of  Several  by  whom  the  noble  truths  which  we  have 
tfstr  "^clarkson  ^^^^  ^^^^7  exemplified  by  Turner  are  also 
stanfieid.  deeply  felt  and  faithfully  rendered  ;  though 

there  is  a  necessity,  for  the  perfect  statement  of  them,  of 
such  an  unison  of  freedom  of  thought  with  perfect  mastery 
over  the  greatest  mechanical  difficulties,  as  we  can  scarcely 
hope  to  see  attained  by  more  than  one  man  in  our  age.  Very 
nearly  the  same  words  which  we  used  in  reference  to  Stan- 
field's  drawings  of  the  central  clouds,  might  be  applied  to  his 
rendering  of  mountain  truth.  He  occupies  exactly  the  same 
position  with  respect  to  other  artists  in  earth  as  in  cloud. 
None  can  be  said  really  to  draw  the  mountain  as  he  will,  to 
have  so  perfect  a  mastery  over  its  organic  development  ;  but 
there  is,  nevertheless,  in  all  his  works,  some  want  of  feeling 
and  individuality.  He  has  studied  and  mastered  his  subject 
to  the  bottom,  but  he  trusts  too  much  to  that  past  study, 
and  rather  invents  his  hills  from  his  possessed  stores  of 
knowledge,  than  expresses  in  them  the  fresh  ideas  received 
from  nature.  Hence,  in  all  that  he  does,  we  feel  a  little 
too  much  that  the  hills  are  his  own.  We  cannot  swear 
to  their  being  the  particular  crags  and  individual  promon- 
tories which  break  the  cone  of  Ischia,  or  shadow  the  waves 
of  Maggiore.  We  are  nearly  sure,  on  the  contrary,  that 
nothing  but  the  outline  is  local,  and  that  all  the  filling  up 
has  been  done  in  the  study.  Now,  we  have  already  shown 
§ 26.  Importance  (Scct.  I.  Chap.  III.)  that  particular  truths  are 
ind^iviS^^truth  i^ore  important  than  general  ones,  and  this  is 
in  hill  drawing,    j^g|^  the  cases  in  which  that  rule  espe- 

cially applies.  Nothing  is  so  great  a  sign  of  truth  and 
beauty  in  mountain  drawing  as  the  appearance  of  individu- 
ality— nothing  is  so  great  a  proof  of  real  imagination  and  in- 


60 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


vention,  as  the  appearance  that  nothing  has  been  imagined 
or  invented.  We  ought  to  feel  of  every  inch  of  mountain, 
that  it  must  have  existence  in  reality,  that  if  we  had  lived 
near  the  place  we  should  have  known  every  crag  of  it,  and 
that  there  must  be  people  to  whom  every  crevice  and  shadow 
of  the  picture  is  fraught  with  recollections,  and  colored  with 
associations.  The  moment  the  artist  can  make  us  feel  this — 
the  moment  he  can  make  us  think  that  he  has  done  nothing, 
that  nature  has  done  all — that  moment  he  becomes  ennobled, 
he  proves  himself  great.  As  long  as  we  remember  him,  we 
cannot  respect  him.  We  honor  him  most  when  we  most 
forget  him.  He  becomes  great  when  he  becomes  invisible. 
And  we  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to  express  our  hope 
that  Mr.  Stanfield  will — our  conviction  that  he  must — 
if  he  would  advance  in  his  rank  as  an  artist,  attend 
more  to  local  character,  and  give  us  generally  less  of  the 
Stanfield  limestone.  He  ought  to  study  with  greater  atten- 
tion the  rocks  which  afford  finer  divisions  and  more  delicate 
parts  (slates  and  gneiss  ;)  and  he  ought  to  observe  more 
fondly  and  faithfully  those  beautiful  laws  and  lines  of  swell 
and  curvature,  by  intervals  of  w^hich  nature  sets  off  and  re- 
lieves the  energy  of  her  peaked  outlines.  He  is  at  present 
apt  to  be  too  rugged,  and,  in  consequence,  to  lose  size.  Of 
his  best  manner  of  drawing  hills,  I  believe  I  can  scarcely  give 
a  better  example  than  the  rocks  of  Suli,  engraved  in  Finden's 
illustrations  to  Byron.  It  is  very  grand  and  perfect  in  all 
parts  and  points. 

Copley  Fielding  is  peculiarly  graceful  and  affectionate  in 
his  drawing  of  the  inferior  mountains.    But  as  with  his  clouds 
so  with  his  hills  ;  as  long  as  he  keeps  to  silvery  films  of  misty 
outline,  or  purple  shadows  ming-led  with  the 

§27.    Works  of  .        T    ,       1      .  ,  'o  1      1  1 

Copley  Fielding,  evening  light,  he  IS  true  and  beautitul  ;  but  the 

His  hill  feeling.  ,         .  ,  ,  j.    e  ' ^  -r 

moment  he  withdraws  the  mass  out  oi  its  veihng- 
mystery,  he  is  lost.  His  worst  drawings,  therefore,  are  those 
on  which  he  has  spent  most  time  ;  for  he  is  sure  to  show 
weakness  wherever  he  gives  detail.  We  believe  that  all  his 
errors  proceed,  as  we  observed  before,  from  his  not  working 
with  the  chalk  or  pencil  ;  and  that  if  he  would  paint  lialf 


OF  THE  INFERIOR  MOUNTAINS. 


the  number  of  pictures  in  the  year  which  he  usually  produces, 
and  spend  his  spare  time  in  hard  dry  study  of  forms,  the 
half  he  painted  would  be  soon  worth  double  the  present  value 
of  all.  For  he  really  has  deep  and  genuine  feeling  of  hill 
character — a  far  higher  perception  of  space,  elevation,  incor- 
poreal color,  and  all  those  qualities  which  are  the  poetry  of 
mountains,  than  any  other  of  our  water-color  painters  ;  and 
it  is  an  infinite  pity  that  he  should  not  give  to  these  delicate 
feelings  the  power  of  realization,  which  might  be  attained  by 
a  little  labor.  A  few  thorough  studies  of  his  favorite  moun- 
tains, Ben-Yenue  or  Ben-Cruachan,  in  clear,  strong,  front 
chiaroscuro,  allowing  himself  neither  color  nor  mist,  nor  any 
means  of  getting  over  the  ground  but  downright  drawing, 
would,  we  think,  open  his  eyes  to  sources  of  beauty  of  which  he 
now  takes  no  cognizance.  He  ought  not,  however,  to  repeat 
the  same  subjects  so  frequently,  as  the  casting  about  of  the 
mind  for  means  of  varying  them  blunts  the  feelings  to  truth. 
And  he  should  remember  that  an  artist,  who  is  not  making 
progress,  is  nearly  certain  to  be  retrograding  ;  and  that  prog- 
ress is  not  to  be  made  by  working  in  the  study,  or  by  mere 
labor  bestowed  on  the  repetition  of  unchanging  conceptions. 

J.  D.  Harding  would  paint  mountains  very  nobly,  if  he 
made  them  of  more  importance  in  his  compositions,  but  they 
are  usually  little  more  than  backgrounds  for  his  foliage  or 
§  28  Works  of  ^uildings  ;  and  it  is  his  present  system  to  make 
J.  D.  Harding  his  back2:rounds  very  slio^ht.    His  color  is  very 

and  others.  .f.  ^       -  .  .    .  ^ 

beautiful  ;  indeed,  both  his  and  Fielding  s  are 
far  more  refined  than  Stanfield's.  We  wish  he  would  oftener 
take  up  some  wild  subject  dependent  for  interest  on  its  moun- 
tain forms  alone,  as  we  should  anticipate  the  highest  results 
from  his  perfect  drawing  ;  and  we  think  that  such  an  exer- 
cise, occasionally  gone  completely  through,  would  counter- 
act a  tendency  which  we  perceive  in  his  present  distances, 
to  become  a  little  thin  and  cutting,  if  not  incomplete. 

The  late  G.  Robson  was  a  man  most  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  all  the  characteristics  of  our  own  island  hills  ;  and  some 
of  the  outlines  of  John  Varley  showed  very  grand  feeling  of 
energy  of  form. 


62 


OF  THE  FOMEGBOUND. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 

We  have  now  only  to  observe  the  close  characteristics  of 
the  rocks  and  soils  to  which  the  large  masses  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking,  owe  their  ultimate  characters, 
o .   «...  .    ,        We  have  already  seen  that  there  exists  a 

§1.  What  rocks  i      i  t     •        •  i 

were  the  chief  marked  distinction  between  those  stratified  rocks 

components  of  an-      ^  ^     -i  i  i       •  i  it 

cient  landscape  whose  beds  are  amorphous  and  without  subdi- 
foreground.  yision,  as  many  limestones  and  sandstones,  and 
those  which  are  divided  by  lines  of  lamination,  as  all  slates. 
The  last  kind  of  rock  is  the  more  frequent  in  nature,  and 
forms  the  greater  part  of  all  hill  scenery  ;  it  has,  however, 
been  successfully  grappled  with  by  few,  even  of  the  moderns, 
except  Turner  ;  while  there  is  no  single  example  of  any  aim 
at  it  or  thought  of  it  among  the  ancients,  whose  foregrounds, 
as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  guess  at  their  intention  through 
their  concentrated  errors,  are  chosen  from  among  the  tufa  and 
travertin  of  the  lower  Apennines,  (the  ugliest  as  well  as  the 
least  characteristic  rocks  of  nature,)  and  whose  larger  feat- 
ures of  rock  scenery,  if  we  look  at  them  with  a  predetermina- 
tion to  find  in  them  a  resemblance  of  something,  may  be  pro- 
nounced at  least  liker  the  mountain  limestone  than  anything 
else.  T  shall  glance,  therefore,  at  the  general  characters  of 
these  materials  first,  in  order  that  we  may  be  able  to  appreci- 
ate the  fidelity  of  rock-drawing  on  which  Salvator's  reputa- 
tion has  been  built. 

The  massive  limestones  separate  generally  into  irregular 
§  2  Salvator's  ^^^^^^5  tending  to  the  form  of  cubes  or  parallel- 
limestones.  The  opipeds,  and  terminated  by  tolerably  smooth 

real  characters  of  ^  . 

the  rock.  Its  planes.  The  weather,  acting  on  the  edges  of 
tnseness  of  an-  thesc  blocks,  rounds  them  off  ;  but  the  frost, 
which,  while  it  cannot  penetrate  nor  split  the 
body  of  the  stone,  acts  energetically  on  the  angles,  splits  off  the 
rounded  fragments,  and  supplies  sharp,  fresh,  and  complicated 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 


63 


edges.  Hence  the  angles  of  such  blocks  are  usually  marked 
by  a  series  of  steps  and  fractures,  in  which  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  the  rock  is  most  distinctly  seen  ;  the  effect  being  in- 
creased in  many  limestones  by  the  interposition  of  two  or 
three  thinner  beds  between  the  large  strata  of  which  the  block 
has  been  a  part  ;  these  thin  laminae  breaking  easily,  and  sup- 
plying a  number  of  fissures  and  lines  at  the  edge  of  the  de- 
tached mass.  Thus,  as  a  general  principle,  if  a  rock  have 
character  anywhere,  it  will  be  on  the  angle,  and  however  even 
and  smooth  its  great  planes  may  be,  it  will  usually  break  into 
variety  where  it  turns  a  corner.  In  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
pieces  of  rock  truth  ever  put  on  canvas,  the  foreground  of  the 
Napoleon  in  the  Academy,  1842,  this  principle  was  beauti- 
fully exemplified  in  the  complicated  fractures  of  the  upper 
angle  just  where  it  turned  from  the  light,  while  the  planes  of 
the  rock  were  varied  only  by  the  modulation  they  owed  to 
the  waves.  It  follows  from  this  structure  that  the  edges  of 
all  rock  being  partially  truncated,  first  by  large  fractures, 
and  then  by  the  rounding  of  the  fine  edges  of  these  by  the 
weather,  perpetually  present  co/i^e^c  transitions  from  the  light 
to  the  dark  side,  the  planes  of  the  rock  almost  always  swell- 
ing a  little  yVo^i  the  angle. 

Now  it  will  be  found  throughout  the  works  of  Salvator, 
that  his  most  usual  practice  was  to  give  a  concave  sweep  of 
the  brush  for  his  first  expression  of  the  dark  side,  leaving  the 
paint  darkest  towards  the  li^rht  ;  by  which  daring: 

§3.     Salvator's   ^,  .u^^  i  uu 

acute  angles  and  Original  method  oi  procedure  he  has  suc- 

caused    by   the  in-  •        i  •      /»  i         -^i  /? 

meeting  of  con-  cecded  in  covcring  his  loregrounds  with  torms 
av  urve  .  which  approximate  to  those  of  drapery,  of  rib- 
bons, of  crushed  cocked  hats,  of  locks  of  hair,  of  waves,  leaves, 
or  anything,  in  short,  flexible  or  tough,  but  which  of  course 
are  not  only  unlike,  but  directly  contrary  to  the  forms  which 
nature  has  impressed  on  rocks.* 

*  I  have  cut  out  a  passage  in  this  place  which  insisted  on  the  angular 
character  of  rocks, — not  because  it  was  false,  but  because  it  was  incom- 
plete, and  I  cannot  explain  it  nor  complete  it  without  example.  It  is 
not  the  absence  of  curves,  but  the  suggestion  of  hardness  tJiroughcvLxves, 
and  of  the  under  tendencies  of  the  inward  structure,  which  form  tho 


64 


OF  Tim  FOREGROUND, 


And  the  circular  and  sweeping  strokes  or  stains  which  are 
dashed  at  random  over  their  surfaces,  only  fail  of  destroying 
all  resemblance  whatever  to  rock  structure  from  their  fre- 
§4.  Peculiar dis-  cfi^^nt  Want  of  any  meaning  at  all,  and  from  the 
amfrhade^in  the  i"^ Possibility  of  ouF  supposing  any  of  them  to 
rocks  of  nature.  representative  of  shade.  Now,  if  there  be 
any  part  of  landscape  in  which  nature  develops  her  principles 
of  light  and  shade  more  clearly  than  another,  it  is  rock  ;  for 
the  dark  sides  of  fractured  stone  receive  brilliant  reflexes 
from  the  lighted  surfaces,  on  which  the  shadows  are  marked 
with  the  most  exquisite  precision,  especially  because,  owing 
to  the  parallelism  of  cleavage,  the  surfaces  lie  usually  in  di- 
rections nearly  parallel.  Hence  every  crack  and  fissure  has 
its  shadow  and  reflected  light  separated  with  the  most  delic- 
ious distinctness,  and  the  organization  and  solid  form  of  all 
parts  are  told  with  a  decision  of  language,  which,  to  be  fol- 
lowed with  anything  like  fidelity,  requires  the  most  transpar- 
§5.  Peculiar  color,  and  the  most  delicate  and  scientific 
fr^hf  ^ocks'^of  drawing.  So  far  are  the  works  of  the  old  land- 
Saivator.  scape-paiutcrs  from  rendering  this,  that  it  is  ex- 

ceedingly rare  to  find  a  single  passage  in  which  the  shadow 
can  even  be  distinguished  from  the  dark  side — they  scarcely 
seem  to  know  the  one  to  be  darker  than  the  other  ;  and  the 
strokes  of  the  brush  are  not  used  to  explain  or  express  a  form 
known  or  conceived,  but  are  dashed  and  daubed  about  with- 
out any  aim  beyond  the  covering  of  the  canvas.  A  rock," 
the  old  masters  appear  to  say  to  themselves,  "  is  a  great  ir- 
regular, formless,  characterless  lump  ;  but  it  must  have  shade 
upon  it,  and  any  gray  marks  will  do  for  that  shade." 

true  characteristics  of  rock  form  ;  and  Salvator,  whom  neither  here  nor 
elsewhere  I  have  abused  enough,  is  not  wrong  because  he  paints  curved 
rocks,  but  because  his  curves  are  the  curves  of  ribbons  and  not  of  rocks  ; 
and  the  difference  between  rock  curvature  and  other  curvature  I  can- 
not explain  verbally,  but  I  hope  to  do  it  hereafter  by  illustration  ;  and, 
at  present,  let  the  reader  study  the  rock-drawing  of  the  Mont  St.  Gothard 
subject,  in  the  Liber  Studiorum,  and  compare  it  with  any  examples  of 
Salvator  to  which  he  may  happen  to  have  access.  All  the  account  of 
rocks  here  given  is  altogether  inadequate,  and  I  only  do  not  alter  it  be- 
cause I  first  wish  to  give  longer  study  to  the  subject. 


OF  THE  FOREGliOUND. 


65 


Finally,  while  few,  if  any,  of  the  rocks  of  nature  are  un- 
traversed  by  delicate  and  slender  fissures,  whose  black  sharp 
lines  are  the  only  means  by  which  the  peculiar 

§  6.    And    total  ...  . 

want  of  any  ex-  quality  in  which  rocks  most  differ  from  the  other 

pression  of  hard-      i  •  /.      i       i       t  i    •  i 

ness  or  brittle-  objects  oi  the  landscape,  brittleness,  can  be 
effectually  suggested,  we  look  in  vain  among  the 
blots  and  stains  with  which  the  rocks  of  ancient  art  an-- 
loaded,  for  any  vestige  or  appearance  of  fissure  or  splinter 
ing.  Toughness  and  malleability  appear  to  be  the  qualities 
^  ^       .    whose  expression  is  most  aimed  at  :  sometimes 

§  7.  Instances  in  ^      ^  ...  . 

particular  pict-  sponginess,  softness,  flexibility,  tenuity,  and  oc- 
casionally transparency.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
foreground  of  Salvator,  in  No.  230  of  the  Dulwich  Gallery. 
There  is,  on  the  right-hand  side  of  it,  an  object,  which  I 
never  walk  through  the  room  without  contemplating  for  a 
minute  or  two  with  renewed  solicitude  and  anxiety  of  mind, 
indulging  in  a  series  of  very  wild  and  imaginative  conject- 
ures as  to  its  probable  or  possible  meaning.  I  think  there 
is  reason  to  suppose  that  the  artist  intended  it  either  for  a 
very  large  stone,  or  for  the  trunk  of  a  tree  ;  but  any  decis- 
ion as  to  its  being  either  one  or  the  other  of  these  must,  I 
conceive,  be  the  extreme  of  rashness.  It  melts  into  the 
ground  on  one  side,  and  might  reasonably  be  conjectured  to 
form  a  part  of  it,  having  no  trace  of  woody  structure  or 
color  ;  but  on  the  other  side  it  presents  a  series  of  concave 
curves,  interrupted  by  cogs  like  those  of  a  water-wheel,  which 
the  boldest  theorist  would  certainly  not  feel  himself  war- 
ranted in  supposing  symbolical  of  rock.  The  forms  which  this 
substance,  whatever  it  be,  assumes,  will  be  found  repeated, 
though  in  a  less  degree,  in  the  foreground  of  No.  159,  where 
they  are  evidently  meant  for  rock. 

Let  us  contrast  with  this  system  of  rock-drawing,  the  faith- 
ful, scientific,  and  dexterous  studies  of  nature  which  we  find 
^  „     ^        ^  in  the  works  of  Clarkson  Stanfield.    He  is  a  man 

§  8.  Compared 

with  the  works  especially  to  be  opposed  to  the  old  masters,  be- 
ef stanfield.  ^      ^         n  r>        1  . 

cause  he  usually  confines  himself  to  the  same 

rock  subjects  as  they — the  mouldering  and  furrowed  crags 

of  the  secondary  formation  which  arrange  themselves  more 

Vol.  II.— 5 


66 


OF  THE  FOBEGROUND. 


or  less  into  broad  and  simple  masses ;  and  in  the  ren- 
dering of  these  it  is  impossible  to  go  beyond  him.  Nothing 
can  surpass  his  care,  his  firmness,  or  his  success,  in  marking 
the  distinct  and  sharp  light  and  shade  by  which  the  form  is 
explained,  never  confusing  it  with  local  color,  however  richly 
his  surface-texture  may  be  given  ;  while  the  wonderful  play 
of  line  with  which  he  will  vary,  and  through  which  he  will 
indicate,  the  regularity  of  stratification,  is  almost  as  instruc- 
tive as  that  of  nature  herself.  I  cannot  point  to  any  of  his 
works  as  better  or  more  characteristic  than  others  ;  but  his 
Ischia,  in  the  present  British  Institution,  may  be  taken  as  a 
fair  average  example.  The  Botallack  Mine,  Cornwall,  en- 
graved in  the  Coast  Scenery,  gives  us  a  very  finished  and 
generic  representation  of  rock,  whose  primal  organization  has 
been  violently  affected  by  external  influences.  We  have  the 
stratification  and  cleavage  indicated  at  its  base,  every  fissure 
being  sharp,  angular,  and  decisive,  disguised  gradually  as  it 
rises  by  the  rounding  of  the  surface  and  the  successive  fur- 
rows caused  by  the  descent  of  streams.  But  the  exquisite 
drawing  of  the  foreground  is  especially  worthy  of  notice. 
No  huge  concave  sweeps  of  the  brush,  no  daubing  or  splash- 
ing here.  Every  inch  of  it  is  brittle  and  splintery,  and  the 
fissures  are  explained  to  the  eye  by  the  most  perfect,  speak- 
ing light  and  shade, — we  can  stumble  over  the  edges  of  them. 
§  9.  Their  ab-  The  East  Cliff,  Hastings,  is  another  very  fine 
ineverTp^^^  example,  from  the  exquisite  irregularity  with 
which  its  squareness  of  general  structure  is  va- 
ried and  disguised.  Observe  how  totally  contrary  every 
one  of  its  lines  is  to  the  absurdities  of  Salvator.  Stanfield's 
are  all  angular  and  straight,  every  apparent  curve  made  up 
of  right  lines,  while  Salvator's  are  all  sweeping  and  flourish- 
ing like  so  much  penmanship.  Stanfield's  lines  pass  away 
into  delicate  splintery  fissures.  Salvator's  are  broad  daubs 
throughout.  Not  one  of  Stanfield's  lines  is  like  another. 
Every  one  of  Salvator's  mocks  all  the  rest.  All  Stanfield's 
curves,  where  his  universal  angular  character  is  massed,  as  on 
the  left-hand  side,  into  large  sweeping  forms,  are  convex 
Salvator's  are  every  one  concave. 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 


67 


The  foregrounds  of  J.  D.  Harding  and  rocks  of  his  middle 
distances  are  also  thoroughly  admirable.  He  is  not  quite  so 
various  and  undulating  in  his  line  as  Stanfield,  and  sometimes_, 
§  10  The  rocks  middle  distances,  is  wanting  in  solidity, 

of  J.  D.  Harding,  owing  to  a  little  coufusiou  of  the  dark  side  and 
shadow  with  each  other,  or  with  the  local  color.  But  his 
work,  in  near  passages  of  fresh-broken,  sharp-edged  rock,  is 
absolute  perfection,  excelling  Stanfield  in  the  perfect  freedom 
and  facility  with  which  his  fragments  are  splintered  and  scat- 
tered ;  true  in  every  line  without  the  least  apparent  effort. 
Stanfield's  best  works  are  laborious,  but  Harding's  rocks  fall 
from  under  his  hand  as  if  they  had  just  crashed  down  the 
hill-side,  flying  on  the  instant  into  lovely  form.  In  color  also 
he  incomparably  surpasses  Stanfield,  who  is  apt  to  verge  upon 
mud,  or  be  cold  in  his  gray.  The  rich,  lichenous,  and  change- 
ful warmth,  and  delicate  weathered  grays  of  Harding's  rock, 
illustrated  as  they  are  by  the  most  fearless,  firm,  and  unerr- 
ing drawing,  render  his  w^ld  pieces  of  torrent  shore  the  finest 
things,  next  to  the  work  of  Turner,  in  English  foreground 
art. 

J.  B.  Pyne  has  very  accurate  knowledge  of  limestone  rock, 
and  expresses  it  clearly  and  forcibly  ;  but  it  is  much  to  be 
regretted  that  this  clever  artist  appears  to  be  losing  all  sense 
of  color  and  is  getting  more  and  more  mannered  in  execution, 
evidently  never  studying  from  nature  except  with  the  pre- 
vious determination  to  Pynize  everything.* 

*  A  passage  which  I  happened  to  see  in  an  Essay  of  Mr.  Pyne's,  in  the 
Art-Union,  about  nature's  "foisting  rubbish"  upon  the  artist,  5ufi&- 
ciently  explains  the  cause  of  this  decline.  If  Mr.  Pyne  will  go  to  nature, 
as  all  great  men  have  done,  and  as  all  men  who  mean  to  be  great  must 
do,  that  is  not  merely  to  be  helped^  but  to  be  taught  by  her ;  and  will 
once  or  twice  take  her  gifts,  without  looking  them  in  the  mouth,  he 
will  most  assuredly  find — and  I  say  this  in  no  unkind  or  depreciatoiy 
feeling,  for  I  should  say  the  same  of  all  artists  who  are  in  the  habit  of 
only  sketching  nature,  and  not  studying  hei' — that  her  worst  is  better 
than  his  best.  I  am  quite  sure  that  if  Mr.  Pyne,  or  any  other  painter 
who  has  hitherto  been  very  careful  in  his  choice  of  subject,  will  go  into 
the  next  turn -pike  road,  and  taking  the  first  four  trees  that  he  comes  to 
in  the  hedge,  give  them  a  day  each,  drawing  them  leaf  for  leaf,  as  far 


68 


OF  THE  FOEEGROUND, 


Before  passing  to  Turner,  let  us  take  one  more  glance  at 
the  foregrounds  of  the  old  masters,  with  reference,  not  to 
their  management  of  rock,  which  is  comparatively  a  rare 

component  part  of  their  foregrounds,  but  to  the 
yioose^eartrand  common  soil  which  they  were  obliged  to  paint 

constantly,  and  whose  forms  and  appearances 
are  the  same  all  over  the  world.  A  steep  bank  of  loose  earth 
of  any  kind,  that  has  been  at  all  exposed  to  the  weather, 
contains  in  it,  though  it  may  not  be  three  feet  high,  features 
capable  of  giving  high  gratification  to  a  careful  observer.  It 
is  almost  a  fac-simile  of  a  mountain  slope  of  soft  and  decom- 
posing rock  ;  it  possesses  nearly  as  much  variety  of  character, 
and  is  governed  by  laws  of  organization  no  less  rigid.  It  is 
furrowed  in  the  first  place  by  undulating  lines,  by  the  descent 
of  the  rain,  little  ravines,  which  are  cut  precisely  at  the  same 
slope  as  those  of  the  mountain,  and  leave  ridges  scarcely  less 
graceful  in  their  contour,  and  beautifully  sharp  in  their  chis- 
elling.   Where  a  harder  knot  of  ground  or  a  stone  occurs, 

the  earth  is  washed  from  beneath  it,  and  accum- 
hig^race^ a?d^f id-  ulatcs  above  it,  and  there  we  have  a  little  prec- 

ness  of  feature.       •    •  i     ^    ^  •  j.  -i 

ipice  connected  by  a  sweeping  curve  at  its 
summit  with  the  great  slope,  and  casting  a  sharp  dark 
shadow  ;  where  the  soil  has  been  soft,  it  will  probably  be 
washed  away  underneath  until  it  gives  way,  and  leaves  a 
jagged,  hanging,  irregular  line  of  fracture  ;  and  all  these  cir- 
cumstances are  explained  to  the  eye  in  sunshine  with  the 
most  delicious  clearness  ;  every  touch  of  shadow  being  ex- 
pressive of  some  particular  truth  of  structure,  and  bearing 
witness  to  the  symmetry  into  which  the  whole  mass  has  been 
reduced.  Where  this  operation  has  gone  on  long,  and  veg- 
etation has  assisted  in  softening  the  outlines,  we  have  our 
ground  brought  into  graceful  and  irregular  curves,  of  infinite 

as  may  be,  and  even  their  smallest  boughs  with  as  much  care  as  if  they 
were  rivers,  or  an  important  map  of  a  newly-surveyed  country,  he  will 
find,  when  he  has  brought  them  all  home,  that  at  least  three  out  of  the 
four  are  better  than  the  best  he  ever  invented.  Compare  Part  III. 
Sect.  I.  Chap.  III.  §  12,  13,  (the  reference  in  the  note  ought  to  be  to 
Chap.  XV.  §  7.) 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND, 


69 


variety,  but  yet  always  so  connected  with  each,  other,  and 
guiding  to  each  other,  that  the  eye  never  feels  them  as  sepa^ 
rate  things,  nor  feels  inclined  to  count  them,  nor  perceives  a 
likeness  in  one  to  the  other  ;  they  are  not  repetitions  of  each 
other,  but  are  different  parts  of  one  system.  Each  would  be 
imperfect  without  the  one  next  to  it. 

Now  it  is  all  but  impossible  to  express  distinctly  the  par- 
ticulars wherein  this  fine  character  of  curve  consists,  and  to 
show  in  definite  examples,  what  it  is  which  makes  one  repre- 
§  13.  The  ground  sentation  right,  and  another  wrong.  The  ground 
of  Teniers.  Teuicrs,  for  instance,  in  No.  139  in  the  Dul- 

wich  Gallery,  is  an  example  of  all  that  is  wrong.  It  is  a 
representation  of  the  forms  of  shaken  and  disturbed  soil, 
such  as  we  should  see  here  and  there  after  an  earthquake,  or 
over  the  ruins  of  fallen  buildings.  It  has  not  one  contour 
nor  character  of  the  soil  of  nature,  and  yet  I  can  scarcely  tell 
you  why,  except  that  the  curves  repeat  one  another,  and  are 
monotonous  in  their  flow,  and  are  unbroken  by  the  delicate 
angle  and  momentary  pause  with  which  the  feeling  of  nature 
would  have  touched  them^  and  are  disunited  ;  so  that  the 
eye  leaps  from  this  to  that,  and  does  not  pass  from  one  to 
the  other  without  being  able  to  stop,  drawn  on  by  the  con- 
tinuity of  line  ;  neither  is  there  any  undulation  or  furrowing 
of  watermark,  nor  in  one  spot  or  atom  of  the  whole  surface, 
is  there  distinct  explanation  of  form  to  the  eye  by  means  of  a 
determined  shadow.  All  is  mere  sweeping  of  the  brush  over 
the  surface  with  various  ground  colors,  without  a  single  indi- 
cation of  character  by  means  of  real  shade. 

Let  not  these  points  be  deemed  unimportant  ;  the  truths 
of  form  in  common  ground  are  quite  as  valuable,  (let  me 
anticipate  myself  for  a  moment,)  quite  as  beautiful,  as  any 
14  I     rt  ce  ^^^^^^  which  nature  presents,  and  in  lowland 
of  these  minor  landscape  they  present  us  with  a  species  of  line 

parts  and  points.       i  •  i     • ,    •  ' .       •  mi      ,         i  ,  • 

which  it  IS  quite  impossible  to  obtain  in  any 
other  way, — the  alternately  flowing  and  broken  line  of  moun- 
tain scenery,  which,  however  small  its  scale,  is  always  of  in- 
estimable value,  contrasted  with  the  repetitions  of  organic 
form  which  we  are  compelled  to  give  in  vegetation.  A  really 


70 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 


great  artist  dwells  on  every  inch  of  exposed  soil  with  care 
and  delight,  and  renders  it  one  of  the  most  essential,  speak- 
ing and  pleasurable  parts  of  his  composition.  And  be  it  re- 
membered, that  the  man  who,  in  the  most  conspicuous  part 
of  his  foreground,  will  violate  truth  with  every  stroke  of  the 
pencil,  is  not  likely  to  be  more  careful  in  other  parts  of  it ; 
and  that  in  the  little  bits  which  I  fix  upon  for  animadversion, 
I  am  not  pointing  out  solitary  faults,  but  only  the  most 
characteristic  examples  of  the  falsehood  which  is  everywhere, 
and  which  renders  the  whole  foreground  one  mass  of  con- 
§15.  Theobserv-  tradictions  and  absurdities.  Nor  do  I  myself 
the^reii  disUnS  sec  wherciu  the  great  difference  lies  between  a 
ma^tef Tnd  the  "^^ster  and  a  novice,  except  in  the  rendering  of 
'^o^ice.  finer  truths,  of  which  I  am  at  present  speak- 

ing. To  handle  the  brush  freely,  and  to  paint  grass  and 
weeds  with  accuracy  enough  to  satisfy  the  eye,  are  accom- 
plishments which  a  year  or  two's  practice  will  give  any  man ; 
but  to  trace  among  the  grass  and  weeds  those  mysteries  of 
invention  and  combination,  by  which  nature  appeals  to  the 
intellect — to  render  the  delicate  fissure,  and  descending 
curve,  and  undulating  shadow  of  the  mouldering  soil,  with 
gentle  and  fine  finger,  like  the  touch  of  the  rain  itself — to 
find  even  in  all  that  appears  most  trifling  or  contemptible, 
fresh  evidence  of  the  constant  working  of  the  Divine  power 
"  for  glory  and  for  beauty,"  and  to  teach  it  and  proclaim  it 
to  the  unthinking  and  the  unregardless — this,  as  it  is  the 
peculiar  province  and  faculty  of  the  master-mind,  so  it  is  the 
peculiar  duty  which  is  demanded  of  it  by  the  Deity. 

It  would  take  me  no  reasonable  nor  endurable  time,  if  I 
were  to  point  out  one  half  of  the  various  kinds  and  classes 
of  falsehood  which  the  inventive  faculties  of  the  old  masters 
§16.  The  ground  Succeeded  in  originating,  in  the  drawing  of  fore- 
of  cuyp.  grounds.    It  is  not  this  man,  nor  that  man,  nor 

one  school  nor  another  ;  all  agree  in  entire  repudiation  of 
everything  resembling  facts,  and  in  the  high  degree  of  ab- 
surdity of  what  they  substitute  for  them.  Even  Cuyp,  who 
evidently  saw  and  studied  near  nature,  as  an  artist  should 
do — not  fishing  for  idealities,  but  taking  what  nature  gave 


OF  TEE  FOREGROUND. 


71 


him,  and  thanking  her  for  it — even  he  appears  to  have  sup- 
posed that  the  drawing  of  the  earth  might  be  trusted  to 
§  17.  And  of  chance  or  imagination,  and,  in  consequence, 
Claude.  strcws  his  banks  with  lumps  of  dough,  instead  of 

stones.  Perhaps,  however,  the  beautiful  foregrounds  "  of 
Claude  afford  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  childishness 
and  incompetence  of  all.  That  of  his  morning  landscape, 
with  the  large  group  of  trees  and  high  single-arched  bridge, 
in  the  National  Gallery,  is  a  pretty  fair  example  of  the  kind 
of  error  which  he  constantly  falls  into.  I  will  not  say  any- 
thing of  the  agreeable  composition  of  the  three  banks,  rising 
one  behind  another  from  the  water.  I  merely  affirm  that  it 
amounts  to  a  demonstration  that  all  three  were  painted  in 
the  artist's  study,  without  any  reference  to  nature  whatever. 
In  fact,  there  is  quite  enough  intrinsic  evidence  in  each  of 
them  to  prove  this,  seeing  that  what  appears  to  be  meant  for 
vegetation  upon  them,  amounts  to  nothing  more  than  a  green 
stain  on  their  surfaces,  the  more  evidently  false  because  the 
leaves  of  the  trees  twenty  yards  farther  off  are  all  perfectly 
visible  and  distinct  ;  and  that  the  sharp  lines  with  which 
each  cuts  against  that  beyond  it,  are  not  only  such  as  crum- 
bling earth  could  never  show  or  assume,  but  are  maintained 
through  their  whole  progress  ungraduated,  unchanging,  and 
unaffected  by  any  of  the  circumstances  of  varying  shade  to 
§  18.  The  entire  which  every  One  of  nature's  lines  is  inevitably 
cMdrshness  ^  of  Subjected.  In  fact,  the  whole  arrangement  is 
the  latter.  impotent  Struggle  of  a  tyro  to  express,  by 

successive  edges,  that  approach  of  earth  which  he  finds  him- 
self incapable  of  expressing  by  the  drawing  of  the  surface. 
Claude  wished  to  make  you  understand  that  the  edge  of  his 
pond  came  nearer  and  nearer  :  he  had  probably  often  tried 
to  do  this  with  an  unbroken  bank,  or  a  bank  only  varied  by 
the  delicate  and  harmonized  anatomy  of  nature  ;  and  he  had 
found  that  owing  to  his  total  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  per- 
spective, such  efforts  on  his  part  invariably  ended  in  his  re- 
ducing his  pond  to  the  form  of  a  round  O,  and  making  it 
look  perpendicular.  Much  comfort  and  solace  of  mind,  in 
such  unpleasant  circumstances,  may  be  derived  from  in- 


72 


OF  THE  FOBEGROUND. 


stantly  dividing  the  obnoxious  bank  into  a  number  of  suc- 
cessive promontories,  and  developing  their  edges  with  com- 
pleteness and  intensity.  Every  school-girl's  drawing,  as  soon 
as  her  mind  has  arrived  at  so  great  a  degree  of  enlighten- 
ment as  to  perceive  that  perpendicular  water  is  objection- 
able, will  supply  us  with  edifying  instances  of  this  unfailing 
resource  ;  and  this  foreground  of  Claude's  is  only  one  out  of 
the  thousand  cases  in  which  he  has  been  reduced 

§  19.   Compared         ,  at«/»«i 

with  the  work  of  to  it.    And  if  it  be  asKcd,  how  the  proceeding: 

Turner  .  a  o 

differs  from  that  of  nature,  I  have  only  to  point 
to  nature  herself,  as  she  is  drawn  in  the  foreground  of  Tur- 
ner's Mercury  and  Argus,  a  case  precisely  similar  to  Claude's, 
of  earthy  crumbling  banks  cut  away  by  water.  It  will  be 
found  in  this  picture  (and  I  am  now  describing  nature's  work 
and  Turner's  with  the  same  words)  that  the  whole  distance 
is  given  by  retirement  of  solid  surface  ;  and  that  if  ever  an 
edge  is  expressed,  it  is  only  felt  for  an  instant,  and  then  lost 
again  ;  so  that  the  eye  cannot  stop  at  it  and  prepare  for  a 
long  jump  to  another  like  it,  but  is  guided  over  it,  and 
round  it,  into  the  hollow  beyond  ;  and  thus  the  whole  re- 
ceding mass  of  ground,  going  back  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  is  made  completely  one — no  part  of  it  is  separated 
from  the  rest  for  an  instant — it  is  all  united,  and  its  modu- 
lations are  members^  not  divisio?is  of  its  mass.  But  those 
modulations  are  countless — heaving  here,  sinking  there — now 
swelling,  now  mouldering,  now  blending,  now  breaking — giv- 
ing, in  fact,  to  the  foreground  of  this  universal  master,  pre- 
cisely the  same  qualities  which  we  have  before  seen  in  his 
hills,  as  Claude  gave  to  his  foreground  precisely  the  same 
qualities  which  we  had  before  found  in  his  hills, — infinite 
unity  in  the  one  case,  finite  division  in  the  other. 

Let  us,  then,  having  now  obtained  some  insight  into  the 
principles  of  the  old  masters  in  foreground  drawing,  contrast 
them  throughout  with  those  of  our  great  mod- 

§  20.  General  fea-  =>  .  .        .         «  , 

turesof  Turner's   ern  master.    The  investigation  of  the  excellence 
of  Turner's  drawing  becomes  shorter  and  easier 
as  we  proceed,  because  the  great  distinctions  between  his 
work  and  that  of  other  painters  are  the  same,  whatever  the 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 


73 


object  or  subject  may  be  ;  and  after  once  showing  the  gen- 
eral characters  of  the  particular  specific  forms  under  con- 
sideration, we  have  only  to  point,  in  the  works  of  Turner, 
to  the  same  principles  of  infinity  and  variety  in  carrying 
them  out,  which  we  have  before  insisted  upon  with  reference 
to  other  subjects. 

The  Upper  Fall  of  the  Tees,  Yorkshire,  engraved  in  the 
England  series,  may  be  given  as  a  standard  example  of  rock- 
drawing  to  be  opposed  to  the  work  of  Salvator.  We  have, 
§  21.  Geological  ii^  the  great  face  of  rock  which  divides  the  two 
rockfin\h?FaU  Streams,  horizontal  lines  which  indicate  the  real 
of  the  Tees.  direction  of  the  strata,  and  these  same  lines  are 
given  in  ascending  perspective  all  along  the  precipice  on  the 
right.  But  we  see  also  on  the  central  precipice  fissures 
absolutely  vertical,  which  inform  us  of  one  series  of  joints 
dividing  these  horizontal  strata  ;  and  the  exceeding  smooth- 
ness and  evenness  of  the  precipice  itself  inform  us  that  it 
has  been  caused  by  a  great  separation  of  substance  in  the 
direction  of  another  more  important  line  of  joints,  run- 
ning in  a  direction  across  the  river.  Accordingly,,  we  see  on 
the  left  that  the  whole  summit  of  the  precipice  is  divided 
again  and  again  by  this  great  series  of  joints  into  vertical 
beds,  which  lie  against  each  other  with  their  sides  towards 
us,  and  are  traversed  downwards  by  the  same  vertical  lines 
traceable  on  the  face  of  the  central  cliff.  Now,  let  me  direct 
especial  attention  to  the  way  in  which  Turner  has  marked 
„  _  over  this  ^reneral  and  errand  unity  of  structure, 

§  22.  Their  con-  f  ,  ,  , 

vex  surfaces  and  the  modifying  effccts  of  the  weather  and  the 
torrent.  Observe  how  the  whole  surface  of  the 
hill  above  the  precipice  on  the  left  *  is  brought  into  one 
smooth,  unbroken  curvature  of  gentle  convexity,  until  it 
comes  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  then,  just  on  the 
angle  (compare  §  2,)  breaks  into  the  multiplicity  of  fissure 
which  marks  its  geological  structure.  Observe  how  every 
one  of  the  separate  blocks,  into  which  it  divides,  is  rounded 
and  convex  in  its  salient  edges  turned  to  the  weather,  and 

*  In  the  light  between  the  waterfall  and  the  large  dark  mass  on  the 
extreme  right. 


74 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND, 


how  every  one  of  their  inward  angles  is  marked  clear  and  ^ 
sharp  by  the  determined  shadow  and  transparent  reflex. 
Observe  how  exquisitely  graceful  are  all  the  curves  of  the 
convex  surfaces,  indicating  that  every  one  of  them  has  been 
modelled  by  the  winding  and  undulating  of  running  water  ; 
and  how  gradually  they  become  steeper  as  they  descend, 
§  23.  And  perfect  Until  they  are  torn  down  into  the  face  of  the 
precipice.  Finally,  observe  the  exquisite  variety 
of  all  the  touches  which  express  fissure  or  shade  ;  every  one 
in  varying  directions  and  with  new  forms,  and  yet  through- 
out indicating  that  perfect  parallelism  which  at  once  ex- 
plained to  us  the  geology  of  the  rock,  and  falling  into  one 
grand  mass,  treated  with  the  same  simplicity  of  light  and 
shade  which  a  great  portrait  painter  adopts  in  treating  the 
features  of  the  human  face  ;  which,  though  each  has  its 
own  separate  chiaroscuro,  never  disturb  the  wholeness  and 
grandeur  of  the  head,  considered  as  one  ball  or  mass.  So 
here,  one  deep  and  marked  piece  of  shadow  indicates  the 
greatest  proximity  of  the  rounded  mass  ;  and  from  this 
every  shade  becomes  fainter  and  fainter,  until  all  are  lost  in 
the  obscurity  and  dimness  of  the  hanging  precipice  and  the 
shattering  fall.  Again,  see  how  the  same  fractures  just  up- 
on the  edge  take  place  with  the  central  cliff  above  the  right- 
hand  fall,  and  how  the  force  of  the  water  is  told  us  by  the 
confusion  of  debris  accumulated  in  its  channel.  In  fact,  the 
great  quality  about  Turner's  drawings  which  more  especially 
proves  their  transcendent  truth,  is  the  capability  they  afford 
us  of  reasoning  on  past  and  future  phenomena,  just  as  if  we 
had  the  actual  rocks  before  us  ;  for  this  indicates  not  that 
one  truth  is  given,  nor  another,  not  that  a  pretty  or  inter- 
esting morsel  has  been  selected  here  and  there,  but  that 
the  whole  truth  has  been  given,  with  all  the  relations  of  its 
parts  ;  so  that  we  can  pick  and  choose  our  points  of  pleas- 
c     TT  •       _i.    ure  or  of  thought  for  ourselves,  and  reason 

§  24.  Various  parts  ^  '  ^ 

tohi^us  by  the  de^  ^P^n  the  wholc  with  the  same  certainty  which 
tails  of  the  draw-  we  should  after  having  climbed  and  hammered 
over  the  rocks  bit  by  bit.    With  this  drawing 
before  him,  a  geologist  could  give  a  lecture  upon  the  whole 


OF  THE  FOBEGROUND. 


75 


system  of  aqueous  erosion,  and  speculate  as  safely  upon 
the  past  and  future  states  of  this  very  spot,  as  if  he  were 
standing  and  getting  wet  with  the  spray.  He  would  tell 
you,  at  once,  that  the  waterfall  was  in  a  state  of  rapid  reces- 
sion ;  that  it  had  once  formed  a  wide  cataract  just  at  the 
spot  where  the  figure  is  sitting  on  the  heap  of  debris  ;  and 
that  when  it  was  there,  part  of  it  came  down  by  the  channel 
on  the  left,  its  bed  being  still  marked  by  the  delicately 
chiselled  lines  of  fissure.  He  would  tell  you  that  the  fore- 
ground had  also  once  been  the  top  of  the  fall,  and  that  the 
vertical  fissures  on  the  right  of  it  were  evidently  then  the 
channel  of  a  side  stream.  He  would  tell  you  that  the  fall 
was  then  much  lower  than  it  is  now,  and  that  being  lower,  it 
had  less  force,  and  cut  itself  a  narrower  bed  ;  and  that  the 
spot  where  it  reached  the  higher  precipice  is  marked  by  the 
expansion  of  the  wide  basin  which  its  increased  violence  has 
excavated,  and  by  the  gradually  increasing  concavity  of  the 
rocks  below,  which  we  see  have  been  hollowed  into  a  com- 
plete vault  by  the  elastic  bound  of  the  water.  But  neither 
he  nor  I  could  tell  you  with  what  exquisite  and  finished 
marking  of  every  fragment  and  particle  of  soil  or  rock, 
both  in  its  own  structure  and  the  evidence  it  bears  of  these 
great  influences,  the  whole  of  this  is  confirmed  and  carried 
out. 

With  this  inimitable  drawing  we  may  compare  the  rocks 
in  the  foreground  of  the  Llanthony.    These  latter  are  not 
divided  by  joints,  but  into  thin  horizontal  and  united  beds, 
OK   15    4.-*  1  which  the  torrent  in  its  times  of  flood  has  chis- 

§  25.  Beautiful 

instance  of  an  ellcd  awav,  leaving:  one  exposed  under  another, 

exception  to  gen-       ,  *^  °  ^  .  .  ^ 

erai  rules  in  the  With  the  Sweeping  marks  of  its  eddies  upon 
their  edges.  And  here  we  have  an  instance  of 
an  exception  to  a  general  rule,  occasioned  by  particular  and 
local  action.  We  have  seen  that  the  action  of  water  over 
any  surface  universally^  whether  falling,  as  in  rain,  or  sweep- 
ing, as  a  torrent,  induces  convexity  of  form.  But  when  we 
have  rocks  in  situ,  as  here,  exposed  at  their  edges  to  the  vio- 
lent action  of  an  eddy,  that  eddy  will  cut  a  vault  or  circular 
space  for  itself,  (as  we  saw  on  a  large  scale  with  the  high 


76  OF  THE  FOREGROUND, 


water-fall,)  and  we  have  a  concave  curve  interrupting  the 
general  contours  of  the  rock.  And  thus  Turner  (while  every 
edge  of  his  masses  is  rounded,  and,  the  moment  we  rise  above 
the  level  of  the  water,  all  is  convex)  has  interrupted  the 
great  contours  of  his  strata  with  concave  curves,  precisely 
where  the  last  waves  of  the  torrent  have  swept  against  the 
exposed  edges  of  the  beds.  Nothing  could  more  strikingly 
prove  the  depth  of  that  knowledge  by  which  every  touch  of 
this  consummate  artist  is  regulated,  that  universal  command 
of  subject  which  never  acts  for  a  moment  on  anything 
conventional  or  habitual,  but  fills  every  corner  and  space 
with  new  evidence  of  knowledge,  and  fresh  manifestation  of 
thought. 

The  Lower  Fall  of  the  Tees,  with  the  chain-bridge,  might 
serve  us  for  an  illustration  of  all  the  properties  and  forms  of 
vertical  beds  of  rock,  as  the  upper  fall  has  of  horizontal  ; 
§  26.    Turner's  P^^s  rather  to  obscrvc,  in  detached  pieces 

tach^Jd^biocks^of  foreground,  the  particular  modulation  of 
weathered  stone,  pa^ts  which  cauuot  be  investigated  in  the  grand 
combinations  of  general  mass. 

The  blocks  of  stone  which  form  the  foreground  of  the 
Ulleswater  are,  I  believe,  the  finest  example  in  the  world  of 
the  finished  drawing  of  rocks  which  have  been  subjected 
to  violent  aqueous  action.  Their  surfaces  seem  to  palpitate 
from  the  fine  touch  of  the  waves,  and  every  part  of  them  is 
rising  or  falling  in  soft  swell  or  gentle  depression,  though 
the  eye  can  scarcely  trace  the  fine  shadows  on  which  this  chis- 
elling of  the  surface  depends.  And  with  all  this,  every 
block  of  them  has  individual  character,  dependent  on  the  ex- 
pression of  the  angular  lines  of  which  its  contours  were  first 
formed,  and  which  is  retained  and  felt  through  all  the  modu- 
lation and  melting  of  the  water-worn  surface.  And  what  is 
done  here  in  the  most  important  part  of  the  picture,  to  be 
especially  attractive  to  the  eye,  is  often  done  by  Turner  with 
lavish  and  overwhelming  power,  in  the  accumulated  debris  of 
a  wide  foreground,  strewed  with  the  ruin  of  ages,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  Junction  of  the  Greta  and  Tees,  where  he  has 
choked  the  torrent  bed  with  the  mass  of  shattered  rock, 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 


77 


thrown  down  with  the  profusion  and  carelessness  of  nature 
herself  ;  and  yet  every  separate  block  is  a  study,  (and  has 
evidently  been  drawn  from  nature,)  chiselled  and  varied  in 
its  parts,  as  if  it  were  to  be  the  chief  member  of  a  separate 
subject  ;  yet  without  ever  losing,  in  a  single  instance,  its 
subordinate  position,  or  occasioning,  throughout  the  whole 
accumulated  multitude,  the  repetition  of  a  single  line. 

I  consider  cases  like  these,  of  perfect  finish  and  new  con- 
ception, applied  and  exerted  in  the  drawing  of  every  member 
of  a  confused  and  almost  countlessly-divided  system,  about  the 
most  wonderful,  as  well  as  the  most  character- 
compiicated^fore-  istic  passagcs  of  Turner's  foregrounds.  It  is  done 
ground.  j^^^  marvellously,  though  less  distinctly,  in 

the  individual  parts  of  all  his  broken  ground,  as  in  examples 
like  these  of  separate  blocks.  The  articulation  of  such  a  pas- 
sage as  the  nearest  bank,  in  the  picture  we  -  have  already 
spoken  of  at  so  great  length,  the  Upper  Fall  of  the  Tees, 
might  serve  us  for  a  day's  study,  if  we  were  to  go  into  it  part 
by  part  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  do  this,  except  with  the  pen- 
cil ;  we  can  only  repeat  the  same  general  observations,  about 
eternal  change  and  unbroken  unity,  and  tell  you  to  observe 
how  the  eye  is  kept  throughout  on  solid  and  retiring  sur- 
faces, instead  of  being  thrown,  as  by  Claude,  on  flat  and  equal 
edges.  You  cannot  find  a  single  edge  in  Turner's  work  ;  you 
are  everywhere  kept  upon  round  surfaces,  and  you  go  back 
on  these  you  cannot  tell  how — never  taking  a  leap,  but  pro- 
gressing imperceptibly  along  the  unbroken  bank,  till  you  find 
yourself  a  quarter  of  a  mile  into  the  picture,  beside  the  figure 
at  the  bottom  of  the  waterfall. 

Finally,  the  bank  of  earth  on  the  right  of  the  grand  draw- 
ing of  Penmaen  Mawr,  may  be  taken  as  the  standard  of  the 
representation  of  soft  soil  modelled  by  descending  rain  ;  and 
§28.  And  of  loose  scrve  to  show  US  how  cxquisite  in  character 
are  the  resultant  lines,  and  how  full  of  every 
species  of  attractive  and  even  sublime  quality,  if  we  only  are 
wise  enough  not  to  scorn  the  study  of  them.  The  higher  the 
mind,  it  may  be  taken  as  a  universal  rule,  the  less  it  will  scorn 
that  which  appears  to  be  small  or  unimportant  ;  and  the  rank 


78 


OF  THE  FOREGROUND. 


of  a  painter  may  always  be  determined  by  observing  how  he 
uses,  and  with  what  respect  he  views  the  minutiae  of  nature. 
Greatness  of  mind  is  not  shown  by  admitting  small  things, 
but  by  making  small  things  great  under  its  influence.  He 
who  can  take  no  interest  in  what  is  small,  will  take  false  in- 
terest in  what  is  great  ;  he  who  cannot  make  a  bank  sublime, 
will  make  a  mountain  ridiculous. 

It  is  not  until  we  have  made  ourselves  acquainted  with 
these  simple  facts  of  form,  as  they  are  illustrated  by  the 
slighter  works  of  Turner,  that  we  can  become  at  all  competent 
„  ^_  _      .      to  enioy  the  combination  of  all,  in  such  works 

§  29,  The  unison  ' 

of  all  in  the  ideal  as  the  Mercurv  and  Ar2:us,  or  Bay  of  Baiae,  in 

foregrounds     of       ,  .  ,      ,  •     i    •  i        mi  -,11 

the  Academy  pic-  which  the  mind  IS  at  nrst  bewildered  by  the 
abundant  outpouring  of  the  master's  knowledge. 
Often  as  I  have  paused  before  these  noble  works,  I  never  felt 
on  returning  to  them  as  if  I  had  ever  seen  them  before  ;  for 
their  abundance  is  so  deep  and  various  that  the  mind,  accord- 
ing to  its  own  temper  at  the  time  of  seeing,  perceives  some 
new  series  of  truths  rendered  in  them,  just  as  it  would  on  re- 
visiting a  natural  scene  ;  and  detects  new  relations  and  as- 
sociations of  these  truths  which  set  the  whole  picture  in  a 
different  light  at  every  return  to  it.  And  this  effect  is  es- 
pecially caused  by  the  management  of  the  foreground  ;  for 
the  more  marked  objects  of  the  picture  may  be  taken  one  by 
one,  and  thus  examined  and  known  ;  but  the  foregrounds  of 
Turner  are  so  united  in  all  their  parts  that  the  eye  cannot 
take  them  by  divisions,  but  is  guided  from  stone  to  stone, 
and  bank  to  bank,  discovering  truths  totally  different  in  as- 
pect, according  to  the  direction  in  which  it  approaches  them, 
and  approaching  them  in  a  different  direction,  and  viewing 
them  as  a  part  of  a  new  system,  every  time  that  it  begins  its 
§  30.  And  the  course  at  a  new  point.  One  lesson,  however,  we 
beTeceiverfrom  invariably  taught  by  all,  however  approached 
^11-  or  viewed, — that  the  work  of  the  Great  Spirit  of 

nature  is  as  deep  and  unapproachable  in  the  lowest  as  in  the 
noblest  objects, — that  the  Divine  mind  is  as  visible  in  its  full 
energy  of  operation  on  every  lowly  bank  and  mouldering 
stone,  as  in  the  lifting  of  the  pillars  of  heaven,  and  settling 


OF  THE  FOREOBOUND. 


79 


the  foundation  of  the  earth  ;  and  that  to  the  rightly  perceiv- 
ing mind,  there  is  the  same  infinity,  the  same  majesty,  the 
same  power,  the  same  unity,  and  the  same  perfection,  mani- 
fest in  the  casting  of  the  clay  as  in  the  scattering  of  the  cloud, 
in  the  mouldering  of  the  dust  as  in  the  kindling  of  the  day« 
star. 


SEOTIOIT  "V- 
OF  TEUTH  OF  WATEK. 


CHAPTER  1. 

OF  WATER,   AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 

Of  all  inorganic  substances,  acting  in  their  own  proper 
nature,  and  without  assistance  or  combination,  water  is  the 
most  wonderful.  If  we  think  of  it  as  the  source  of  all  the 
§1.  Sketch  of  the.  changefulness  and  beauty  which  we  have  seen 
S'Tg'ency'of  clouds  ;  then  as  the  instrument  by  which  the 
earth  we  have  contemplated  was  modelled  into 
symmetry,  and  its  crags  chiselled  into  grace  ;  then  as,  in  the 
form  of  snow,  it  robes  the  mountains  it  has  made,  with  tliat 
transcendent  light  which  we  could  not  have  conceived  if  we 
had  not  seen  ;  then  as  it  exists  in  the  form  of  the  torrent — 
in  the  iris  which  spans  it,  in  the  morning  mist  which  rises 
from  it,  in  the  deep  crystalline  pools  which  mirror  its  hang- 
ing shore,  in  the  broad  lake  and  glancing  river  ;  finally,  in 
that  which  is  to  all  human  minds  the  best  emblem  of  un- 
wearied, unconquerable  power,  the  wild,  various,  fantastic, 
tameless  unity  of  the  sea  ;  what  shall  we  compare  to  this 
mighty,  this  universal  element,  for  glory  and  for  beauty  ?  or 
how  shall  we  follow  its  eternal  changefulness  of  feeling  ?  It 
is  like  trying  to  paint  a  soul. 

To  suggest  the  ordinary  appearance  of  calm  water — to  lay 
on  canvas  as  much  evidence  of  surface  and  reflection  as  may 
make  us  understand  that  water  is  meant — is,  perhaps,  the 
easiest  task  of  art  ;  and  even  ordinary  running  or  falling 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS.  81 


water  may  be  sufficiently  rendered,  by  observing  careful 
curves  of  projection  with  a  dark  ground,  and   breaking  a 
little  white  over  it,  as  we  see  done  with  iudef- 

§  2.     The  ease  ^  ,    i     V»         t     i       -r»  •  i 

with  which  a  ment  and  truth  by  Kuysdael.  JtSut  to  paint  the 
sentation  of^Tt  actual  play  of  hue  on  the  reflective  surface,  or  to 
Theim^posslbiUty  give  the  forms  and  fury  of  water  when  it  begins 
of  a  faithful  one.  ^^^^  itself— to  give  the  flashing  and  rocket- 
like velocity  of  a  noble  cataract,  or  the  precision  and  grace  of 
the  sea  waves,  so  exquisitely  modelled,  though  so  mockingly 
transient — so  mountainous  in  its  form,  yet  so  cloud-like  in 
its  motion — with,  its  variety  and  delicacy  of  color,  when  every 
ripple  and  wreath  has  some  peculiar  passage  of  reflection 
upon  itself  alone,  and  the  radiating  and  scintillating  sun- 
beams are  mixed  with  the  dim  hues  of  transparent  depth  and 
dark  rock  below  ; — to  do  this  perfectly,  is  beyond  the  power 
of  man  ;  to  do  it  even  partially,  has  been  granted  to  but  one 
or  two,  even  of  those  few  who  have  dared  to  attempt  it. 

As  the  general  laws  which  govern  the  appearances  of  water 
have  equal  effect  on  all  its  forms,  it  would  be  injudicious  to 
treat  the  subject  in  divisions  ;  for  the  same  forces  which 
fi^overn  the  waves  and  foam  of  the  torrent,  are 

§3.  Difficulty  of   ^        „      .    ^  .  ,  ,  .    ,  '  . 

properly   divid-  equally  influential  on  those  ot  the  sea  ;  and  it 

ing  the  subject.         mi  i  '      .    .        a  ^^ 

Will  be  more  convenient  to  glance  generally  at 
the  system  of  water-painting  of  each  school  and  artist,  than 
to  devote  separate  chapters  to  the  examination  of  the  lake, 
river,  or  sea-painting  of  all.  We  shall,  therefore,  vary  our 
usual  plan,  and  look  first  at  the  water-painting  of  the  an- 
cients ;  then  at  that  of  the  moderns  generally  ;  lastly,  at 
that  of  Turner. 

It  is  necessary  in  the  outset  to  state  briefly  one  or  two  of 
the  optical  conditions  by  which  the  appearance  of  the  sur- 
face of  water  is  affected  ;  to  describe  them  all  would  require 
§  4.  Inaccuracy  ^  Separate  cssay,  even  if  I  possessed  the  requi- 
efffcf  Imong^^^^^  site  knowledge,  which  I  do  not.  The  accidental 
painters.  modifications  under  which  general  laws  come 

into  play  are  innumerable,  and  often,  in  their  extreme  com- 
plexity, inexplicable,  I  suppose,  even  by  men  of  the  most 
extended  optical  knowledge.    What  I  shall  here  state  are  a 
Vol.  11.— G 


82     OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


few  only  of  the  broadest  laws  verifiable  by  the  reader's  im- 
mediate observation,  but  of  which  nevertheless,  I  have  found 
artists  frequently  ignorant  ;  owing  to  their  habit  of  sketch- 
ing from  nature  without  thinking  or  reasoning,  and  espe- 
cially of  finishing  at  home.  It  is  not  often,  I  believe,  that 
an  artist  draws  the  reflections  in  water  as  he  sees  them  ;  over 
large  spaces,  and  in  weather  that  is  not  very  calm,  it  is  nearly 
impossible  to  do  so  ;  when  it  is  possible,  sometimes  in  haste, 
and  sometimes  in  idleness,  and  sometimes  under  the  idea  of 
improving  nature,  they  are  slurred  or  misrepresented  ;  it  is 
so  easy  to  give  something  like  a  suggestive  resemblance  of 
calm  water,  that,  even  when  the  landscape  is  finished  from 
nature,  the  water  is  merely  indicated  as  something  that  may 
be  done  at  any  time,  and  then,  in  the  home  work,  come  the 
cold  leaden  grays  with  some,  and  the  violent  blues  and  greens 
with  others,  and  the  horizontal  lines  with  the  feeble,  and  the 
bright  touches  and  sparkles  with  the  dexterous,  and  every- 
thing that  is  shallow  and  commonplace  with  all.  Now,  the 
fact  is,  that  there  is  hardly  a  roadside  pond  or  pool  which 
has  not  as  much  landscape  in  it  as  above  it.  It  is  not  the 
brown,  muddy,  dull  thing  we  suppose  it  to  be  ;  it  has  a  heart 
like  ourselves,  and  in  the  bottom  of  that  there  are  the  boughs 
of  the  tall  trees,  and  the  blades  of  the  shaking  grass,  and  all 
manner  of  hues,  of  variable,  pleasant  light  out  of  the  sky  ; 
nay,  the  ugly  gutter,  that  stagnates  over  the  drain  bars,  in 
the  heart  of  the  foul  city,  is  not  altogether  base  ;  down  in 
that,  if  you  will  look  deep  enough,  you  may  see  the  dark, 
serious  blue  of  far-off  sky,  and  the  passing  of  pure  clouds. 
It  is  at  your  own  will  that  you  see  in  that  despised  stream, 
either  the  refuse  of  the  street,  or  the  image  of  the  sky — so 
it  is  with  almost  all  other  things  that  we  unkindly  despise. 
Now,  this  farseeing  is  just  the  difference  between  the  great 
and  the  vulgar  painter  ;  the  common  man  knows  the  road- 
side pool  is  muddy,  and  draws  its  mud  ;  the  great  painter 
sees  beneath  and  behind  the  brown  surface  what  will  take 
him  a  day's  work  to  follow,  but  he  follows  it,  cost  what  it 
will.  And  if  painters  would  only  go  out  to  the  nearest  com- 
mon and  take  the  nearest  dirty  pond  among  the  furze,  and 


OF  WATJSH,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS,  83 


draw  that  thoroughly,  not  considering  that  it  is  water  that 
they  are  drawing,  and  that  water  must  be  done  in  a  certain 
way  ;  but  drawing  determinedly  what  they  see,  that  is  to 
say,  all  the  trees,  and  their  shaking  leaves,  and  all  the  hazy 
passages  of  disturbing  sunshine  ;  and  the  bottom  seen  in  the 
clearer  little  bits  at  the  edge,  and  the  stones  of  it,  and  all 
the  sky,  and  the  clouds  far  down  in  the  middle,  drawn  as 
completely,  and  more  delicately  they  must  be,  than  the  real 
clouds  above,  they  would  come  home  with  such  a  notion  of 
water-painting  as  might  save  me  and  every  one  else  all 
trouble  of  writing  more  about  the  matter  ;  but  now  they  do 
nothing  of  the  kind,  but  take  the  ugly,  round,  yellow  sur- 
face for  granted,  or  else  improve  it,  and,  instead  of  giving 
that  refined,  complex,  delicate,  but  saddened  and  gloomy  re- 
flection in  the  polluted  water,  they  clear  it  up  with  coarse 
flashes  of  yellow,  and  green,  and  blue,  and  spoil  their  own 
eyes,  and  hurt  ours  ;  failing,  of  course,  still  more  hopelessly 
in  touching  the  pure,  inimitable  light  of  waves  thrown  loose  ; 
and  so  Canaletto  is  still  thought  to  have  painted  canals,  and 
Yandevelde  and  Backhuysen  to  have  painted  sea,  and  the 
uninterpreted  streams  and  maligned  sea  hiss  shame  upon  us 
from  all  their  rocky  beds  and  hollow  shores. 

I  approach  this  part  of  my  subject  with  more  despondency 
than  any  other,  and  that  for  several  reasons  ;  first,  the  water 
painting  of  all  the  elder  landscape  painters,  excepting  a  few 
of  the  better  passaores  of  Claude  and  Ruysdael, 

§  5.  Difficulty  of   .  ui  u  J    n  •  j 

treating  this  part  IS  SO  exccrablc,  SO  bcyond  ail  expression  and  ex- 
of  the  subject.  planatiou  bad  ;  and  Claude's  and  Ruysdael's 
best  so  cold  and  valueless,  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  ad- 
dress those  who  like  such  painting  ;  I  do  not  know  what 
their  sensations  are  respecting  sea.  I  can  perceive  nothing 
in  Vandevelde  or  Backhuysen  of  the  lowest  redeeming 
merit  ;  no  power,  no  presence  of  intellect — or  evidence  of 
perception — of  any  sort  or  kind  ;  no  resemblance — even  the 
feeblest — of  anything  natural  ;  no  invention — even  the  most 
sluggish — of  anything  agreeable.  Had  they  given  us  star- 
ing green  seas  with  hatchet  edges,  such  as  we  see  Her  Maj- 
esty's ships  so-and-so  fixed  into  by  the  heads  or  sterns  in 


84     OF  WATER,  A8  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


the  first  room  of  the  Royal  Academy,  the  admiration  of  them 
would  have  been  comprehensible  ;  there  being  a  natural 
predilection  in  the  mind  of  men  for  green  waves  with  curling 
tops,  but  not  for  clay  and  wool  ;  so  that  though  I  can  under- 
stand, in  some  sort,  why  people  admire  everything  else  in 
old  art,  why  they  admire  Salvator's  rocks,  and  Claude's  fore- 
grounds, and  Hobbima's  trees,  and  Paul  Potter's  cattle,  and 
Jan  Steen's  pans  ;  and  while  I  can  perceive  in  all  these  lik- 
ings a  root  which  seems  right  and  legitimate,  and  to  be  ap- 
pealed to  ;  yet  when  I  find  they  can  even  endure  the  sight 
of  a  Backhuysen  on  their  room  walls  (I  speak  seriously)  it 
makes  me  hopeless  at  once.  I  may  be  wrong,  or  they  may 
be  wrong,  but  at  least  I  can  conceive  of  no  principle  or 
opinion  common  between  us,  which  either  can  address  or 
understand  in  the  other  ;  and  yet  I  am  wrong  in  this  want 
of  conception,  for  I  know  that  Turner  once  liked  Vande- 
velde,  and  I  can  trace  the  evil  influence  of  Vandevelde  on 
most  of  his  early  sea  painting,  but  Turner  certainly  could 
not  have  liked  Vandevelde  without  some  legitimate  cause. 
Another  discouraging  point  is  that  I  cannot  catch  a  wave, 
nor  Daguerreotype  it,  and  so  there  is  no  coming  to  pure 
demonstration  ;  but  the  forms  and  hues  of  water  must  al- 
ways be  in  some  measure  a  matter  of  dispute  and  feeling, 
and  the  more  so  because  there  is  no  perfect  or  even  tolerably 
perfect  sea  painting  to  refer  to  :  the  sea  never  has  been,  and 
I  fancy  never  will  be  nor  can  be  painted  ;  it  is  only  sug- 
gested by  means  of  more  or  less  spiritual  and  intelligent 
conventionalism  ;  and  though  Turner  has  done  enough  to 
suggest  the  sea  mightily  and  gloriously,  after  all  it  is  by 
conventionalism  still,  and  there  remains  so  much  that  is  un- 
like nature,  that  it  is  always  possible  for  those  who  do  not  feel 
his  power  to  justify  their  dislike,  on  very  sufficient  and  rea- 
sonable grounds  ;  and  to  maintain  themselves  obstinately 
unreceptant  of  the  good,  by  insisting  on  the  deficiency 
which  no  mortal  hand  can  supply,  and  which  commonly 
is  most  manifest  on  the  one  hand,  where  most  has  been 
achieved  on  the  other. 

With  calm  water  the  case  is  different.    Facts  are  ascer- 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS.  85 


tainable  and  demonstrable  there,  and  by  the  notice  of  one 
or  two  of  the  simplest,  we  may  obtain  some  notion  of  the 
little  success  arid  intelligence  of  the  elder  painters  in  this 
easier  field,  and  so  prove  their  probable  failure  in  contending 
with  greater  difficulties. 

First  :  Water,  of  course,  owing  to  its  transparency,  pos- 
sesses not  a  perfectly  reflective  surface,  like  that  of  specu- 
lum metal,,  but  a  surface  whose  reflective  power  is  dependent 
on  the  angle  at  which  the  rays  to  be  reflected 
which    regulate  fall.    The  Smaller  this  angle,  the  greater  are 

the  phenomena  of    , ,  ,  «  n      a.    ^  t 

water.  First,  the  the  number  oi  rays  renected.  JNow,  according 
iS^'rJflective  sur-  to  the  number  of  rays  reflected  is  the  force  of 
the  image  of  objects  above,  and  according  to 
the  number  of  rays  transmitted  is  the  perceptibility  of  ob- 
jects below  the  water.  Hence  the  visible  transparency  and 
reflective  power  of  water  are  in  inverse  ratio.  In  looking 
down  into  it  from  above,  we  receive  transmitted  rays  which 
exhibit  either  the  bottom,  or  the  objects  floating  in  the 
water  ;  or  else  if  the  water  be  deep  and  clear,  we  receive 
very  few  rays,  and  the  water  looks  black.  In  looking  along 
water  we  receive  reflected  rays,  and  therefore  the  image  of 
objects  above  it.  Hence,  in  shallow  water  on  a  level  shore 
the  bottom  is  seen  at  our  feet,  clearly  ;  it  becomes  more  and 
more  obscure  as  it  retires,  even  though  the  water  do  not  in- 
crease in  depth,  and  at  a  distance  of  twelve  or  twenty  yards 
— more  or  less  according  to  our  height  above  the  water — be- 
comes entirely  invisible,  lost  in  the  lustre  of  the  reflected 
surface. 

Second  :  The  brighter  the  objects  reflected,  the  larger  the 
angle  at  which  reflection  is  visible  ;  it  is  always  to  be  re- 
membered that,  strictly  speaking,  only  light  objects  are  re- 
§7.  The  inherent  flccted,  and  that  the  darker  ones  are  seen  only 
ifies^drrk^rXc-       proportion  to  the  number  of  rays  of  light 

no?lffect^  bright  ^^^^  ^^^7  ^^"^  5  ^^^^  ^  ^^^^  object  com- 
paratively  loses  its  power  to  affect  the  surface 
of  water,  and  the  water  in  the  space  of  a  dark  reflection  is 
seen  partially  with  the  image  of  the  object,  and  partially 
transparent.    It  will  be  found  on  observation  that  under  a 


86     OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS, 


bank — suppose  with  dark  trees  above  showing  spaces  of 
bright  sky,  the  bright  sky  is  reflected  distinctly,  and  the 
bottom  of  the  water  is  in  those  spaces  not  seen  ;  but  in  the 
dark  spaces  of  reflection  we  see  the  bottom  of  the  water, 
and  the  color  of  that  bottom  and  of  the  water  itself  mingles 
with  and  modifies  that  of  the  color  of  the  trees  casting  the 
dark  reflection. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  circumstances  connected 
with  water  surface,  for  by  these  means  a  variety  of  color  and 
a  grace  and  evanescence  are  introduced  in  the  reflection 
otherwise  impossible.  Of  course  at  great  distances  even 
the  darkest  objects  cast  distinct  images,  and  the  hue  of  the 
water  cannot  be  seen,  but  in  near  water  the  occurrence  of 
its  own  color  modifying  the  dark  reflections,  while  it  leaves 
light  ones  unaffected,  is  of  infinite  value. 

Take,  by  way  of  example,  an  extract  from  my  own  diary 
at  Venice. 

"  May  17th,  4  p.m.  Looking  east  the  water  is  calm,  and 
reflects  the  sky  and  vessels,  with  this  peculiarity  ;  the  sky, 
which  is  pale  blue,  is  in  its  reflection  of  the  same  kind  of 
blue,  only  a  little  deeper  ;  but  the  vessels^  hulls,  which  are 
black,  are  reflected  in  pale  sea  green,  i.e.,  the  natural  color  of 
the  water  under  sunlight  ;  while  the  orange  masts  of  the 
vessels,  wet  with  a  recent  shower,  are  reflected  without 
change  of  color,  only  not  quite  so  bright  as  above.  Dne 
ship  has  a  white,  another  a  red  stripe,"  (I  ought  to  have 
said  horizontal  along  the  gunwales,)  '  of  these  the  water 
takes  no  notice.^ 

What  is  curious,  a  boat  passes  across  with  white  and 
dark  figures,  the  water  reflects  the  dark  ones  in  green,  and 
misses  out  all  the  white  ;  this  is  chiefly  owing  to  the  dark 
images  being  opposed  to  the  bright  reflected  sky." 

I  have  left  the  passage  about  the  white  and  red  stripe,  be- 
cause it  will  be  useful  to  us  presently  ;  all  that  I  wish  to  in- 
sist upon  here  is  the  showing  of  the  local  color  (pea  green) 
of  the  water  in  the  spaces  which  were  occupied  by  dark  re- 
flections, and  the  unaltered  color  of  the  bright  ones. 

Third  :  Clear  water  takes  no  shadow,  and  that  for  two  rea- 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS.  87 


sons  ;  A  perfect  surface  of  speculum  metal  takes  no  shadow, 
(this  the  reader  may  instantly  demonstrate  for  himself,)  and 
§8.  Water  takes  ^  perfectly  transparent  body  as  air  takes  no 
no  shadow.  shadow  ;  hence  water,  whether  transparent  or 
reflective,  takes  no  shadow. 

But  shadows,  or  the  forms  of  them,  appear  on  water  fre- 
quently and  sharply  :  it  is  necessary  carefully  to  explain  the 
causes  of  these,  as  they  are  one  of  the  most  eminent  sources 
of  error  in  water  painting. 

First  :  Water  in  shade  is  much  more  reflective  than  water 
in  sunlight.  Under  sunlight  the  local  color  of  the  water  is 
commonly  vigorous  and  active,  and  forcibly  affects,  as  we 
have  seen,  all  the  dark  reflections,  commonly  diminishing 
their  depth.  Under  shade,  the  reflective  power  is  in  a  high 
degree  increased,*  and  it  will  be  found  most  frequently  that 
the  forms  of  shadows  are  expressed  on  the  surface  of  water, 
not  by  actual  shade,  but  by  more  genuine  reflection  of  ob- 
jects above.  This  is  another  most  important  and  valuable 
circumstance,  and  we  owe  to  it  some  phenomena  of  the 
highest  beauty. 

A  very  muddy  river,  as  the  Arno  for  instance  at  Florence, 
is  seen  during  sunshine  of  its  own  yellow  color,  rendering 
all  reflections  discolored  and  feeble.  At  twilight  it  recovers 
its  reflective  power  to  the  fullest  extent,  and  the  mountains 
of  Carrara  are  seen  reflected  in  it  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  a 
crystalline  lake.  The  Mediterranean,  whose  determined  blue 
yields  to  hardly  any  modifying  color  in  daytime,  receives  at 
evening  the  image  of  its  rocky  shores.  On  our  own  seas, 
seeming  shadows  are  seen  constantly  cast  in  purple  and 
blue,  upon  pale  green.  These  are  no  shadows,  but  the  pure 
reflection  of  dark  or  blue  sky  above,  seen  in  the  shadowed 
space,  refused  by  the  local  color  of  the  sea  in  the  sunlighted 
spaces,  and  turned  more  or  less  purple  by  the  opposition  of 
the  vivid  green. 

*  I  state  this  merely  as  a  fact :  I  am  unable  satisfactorily  to  accouDt 
for  it  on  optical  principles,  and  were  it  otherwise,  the  investigation 
would  be  of  little  interest  to  the  general  reader,  and  little  value  to  the 
artist. 


88     OF  WATEE,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TEE  ANCIENTS. 


We  have  seen,  however,  above,  that  the  local  color  of 
water,  while  it  comparatively  refuses  dark  reflections,  ac- 
cepts bright  ones  without  deadening  them.    Hence  when  a 
shadow  is  thrown  across  a  space  of  w^ater  of 

§9.  Modification  .    .         ^  i       t  i 

of  dark  reflec-  strong  local  color,  receiving,  alternately,  light 

tions  by  shadow.  i    i     i        n       •  •     i  ^.  •  ' 

and  dark  renections,  it  has  no  power  oi  increas- 
ing the  reflectiveness  of  the  water  in  the  bright  spaces,  still 
less  of  diminishing  it  ;  hence,  on  all  the  dark  reflections  it  is 
seen  more  or  less  distinctly,  on  all  the  light  ones  it  vanishes 
altogether. 

Let  us  take  an  instance  of  the  exquisite  complexity  of 
effect  induced  by  these  various  circumstances  in  co-operation. 

Suppose  a  space  of  clear  water  showing  the  bottom  under 
a  group  of  trees,  showing  sky  through  their  branches,  cast- 
ing shadows  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  which  we  will  sup- 
pose also  to  possess  some  color  of  its  own.  Close  to  us,  we 
shall  see  the  bottom,  with  the  shadows  of  the  trees  clearly 
thrown  upon  it,  and  the  color  of  the  water  seen  in  its  gen- 
uineness by  transmitted  light.  Farther  off,  the  bottom  will 
be  gradually  lost  sight  of,  but  it  will  be  seen  in  the  dark  re- 
flections much  farther  than  in  the  light  ones.  At  last  it 
ceases  to  affect  even  the  former,  and  the  pure  surface  effect 
takes  place.  The  blue  bright  sky  is  reflected  truly,  but  the 
dark  trees  are  reflected  imperfectly,  and  the  color  of  the 
water  is  seen  instead.  Where  the  shadow  falls  on  these  dark 
reflections  a  darkness  is  seen  plainly,  which  is  found  to  be 
composed  of  the  pure  clear  reflection  of  the  dark  trees  ; 
when  it  crosses  the  reflection  of  the  sky,  the  shadow  of 
course,  being  thus  fictitious,  vanishes. 

Farther,  of  course  on  whatever  dust  and  other  foulness 
may  be  present  in  water,  real  shadow  falls  clear  and  dark  in 
proportion  to  the  quantity  of  solid  substance  present.  On 
very,  muddy  rivers,  real  shadow  falls  in  sunlight  nearly  as 
sharply  as  on  land  ;  on  our  own  sea,  the  apparent  shadow 
caused  by  increased  reflection,  is  much  increased  in  depth  by 
the  chalkiness  and  impurity  of  the  water. 

Farther,  when  surface  is  rippled,  every  ripple,  up  to  a  cer- 
tain variable  distance  on  each  side  of  the  spectator,  and  at  a 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENT8.  89 


certain  angle  between  him  and  the  sun,  varying  with  the  size 
and  shape  of  the  ripples,  reflects  to  him  a  small  image  of  the 
sun.  Hence  those  dazzling  fields  of  expanding  light  so  often 
seen  upon  the  sea. 

Any  object  that  comes  between  the  sun  and  these  ripples, 
takes  from  them  the  power  of  reflecting  the  sun,  and  in  con- 
sequence, all  their  light  ;  hence  any  intervening  objects  cast 
apparent  shadows  upon  such  spaces  of  intense  force,  and  of 
the  exact  shape,  and  in  the  exact  place  of  real  shadows,  and 
yet  which  are  no  more  real  shadows  than  the  withdrawal  of  an 
image  of  a  piece  of  white  paper  from  a  mirror  is  a  shadow  on 
the  mirror.  Farther,  in  all  shallow  water,  more  or  less  in  pro- 
portion to  its  shallowness,  but  in  some  measure,  I  suppose, 
up  to  depths  of  forty  or  fifty  fathoms,  and  perhaps  more,  the 
local  color  of  the  water  depends  in  great  measure  on  light 
reflected  from  the  bottom.  This,  however,  is  especially  « 
manifest  in  clear  rivers  like  the  Rhone,  where  the  absence  of 
the  light  reflected  from  below  forms  an  apparent  shadow, 
often  visibly  detached  some  distance  from  the  floating  object 
which  casts  it. 

§  10   Examples  following  extract  from  my  own  diary  at 

on  the  water  of  Geneva,  with  the  subsequent  one,  which  is  a  con- 

the  Rhone.  .  •         /.   i  i       •         .  -rr  • 

tinuation  of  that  already  given  in  part  at  v  enice, 
will  illustrate  both  this  and  the  other  points  we  have  been 
stating. 

Geneva,  21^^  Aprils  Morning, 

The  sunlight  falls  from  the  cypresses  of  Rousseau's  isl- 
and straight  towards  the  bridge.  The  shadows  of  the  bridge 
and  of  the  trees  fall  on  the  water  in  leaden  purple,  opposed 
to  its  general  hue  of  aquamarine  green.  This  green  color  is 
caused  by  the  light  being  reflected  from  the  bottom,  though 
the  bottom  is  not  seen  ;  as  is  evident  by  its  becoming  paler 
towards  the  middle  of  the  river,  where  the  water  shoals,  on 
which  pale  part  the  purple  shadow  of  the  small  bridge  falls 
most  forcibly,  which  shadow,  however,  is  still  only  apparent, 
being  the  absence  of  this  reflected  light,  associated  with  the 
increased  reflective  power  of  the  water,  which  in  those  spaces 


90     OF  WATEB,  A8  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


reflects  blue  sky  above.  A  boat  swings  in  the  shoal  water; 
its  reflection  is  cast  in  a  transparent  pea-green,  which  is  con- 
siderably darker  than  the  pale  aquamarine  of  the  surface  at 
the  spot.  Its  shadow  is  detached  from  it  just  about  half  the 
depth  of  the  reflection  ;  which,  therefore,  forms  a  bright 
green  light  between  the  keel  of  the  boat  and  its  shadow  ; 
where  the  shadow  cuts  the  reflection,  the  reflection  is  darkest 
and  something  like  the  true  color  of  the  boat ;  where  the 
shadow  falls  out  of  the  reflection,  it  is  of  a  leaden  purple,  pale. 
The  boat  is  at  an  anoxic  of  about  20^  below.  Another  boat 
nearer,  in  deeper  water,  shows  no  shadow,  whatsoever,  and 
the  reflection  is  marked  by  its  transparent  green,  while  the 
surrounding  water  takes  a  lightish  blue  reflection  from  the 
sky." 

The  above  notes,  after  what  has  been  said,  require  no  com- 
#  ment  ;  but  one  more  case  must  be  stated  belonging  to  rough 
water.  Every  large  wave  of  the  sea  is  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances divided  into,  or  rather  covered  by,  innumerable  smaller 
waves,  each  of  which,  in  all  probability,  from  some  of  its 
edges  or  surfaces  reflects  the  sunbeams  ;  and  hence  result  a 
glitter,  polish,  and  vigorous  light  over  the  whole  flank  of  the 
wave,  which  are,  of  course,  instantly  withdrawn  within  the 
space  of  a  cast  shadow,  whose  form,  therefore,  though  it 
does  not  affect  the  great  body  or  ground  of  the  water  in  the 
least,  is  sufficiently  traceable  by  the  withdrawal  of  the  high 
lights  ;  also  every  string  and  wreath  of  foam  above  or  within 
the  wave  takes  real  shadow,  and  thus  adds  to  the  impres- 
sion. 

I  have  not  stated  one-half  of  the  circumstances  which  pro- 
duce or  influence  effects  of  shadow  on  water  ;  but  lest  I 
should  confuse  or  weary  the  reader,  I  leave  him  to  pursue 
the  subject  for  himself  ;  enough  having  been  stated  to  estab- 
lish this  general  principle,  that  whenever  shadow  is  seen  on 
clear  water,  and,  in  a  measure,  even  on  foul  water,  it  is  not, 
as  on  land,  a  dark  shade  subduing  where  it  falls  the  sunny 
general  hue  to  a  lower  tone  ;  but  it  is  a  space  of  an  entirely 
different  color,  subject  itself,  by  its  susceptibility  of  reflection, 
to  infinite  varieties  of  depth  and  hue,  and  liable,  under  certain 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS.  91 


circumstances,  to  disappear  altogether  ;  and  that,  therefore, 
whenever  we  have  to  paint  such  shadows,  it  is  not  only  the 
hue  of  the  water  itself  that  we  have  to  consider,  but  all  the 
circumstances  by  which  in  the  position  attributed  to  them 
such  shaded  spaces  could  be  affected. 

Fourth  :  If  water  be  rippled,  the  side  of  every  ripple  next 
to  us  reflects  a  piece  of  the  sky,  and  the  side  of  every  ripple 
farthest  from  us  reflects  a  piece  of  the  opposite  sKore,  or  of 
whatever  obiects  may  be  beyond  the  ripple. 

§  11.     Effect    of     ^  ,  •     1  /.     1        r.         1  •  1  r. 

ripple  on  distant  Jiut  as  we  soon  losc  Sight  oi  the  larther  sides  oi 
the  ripples  on  the  retiring  surface,  the  whole 
rippled  space  will  then  be  reflective  of  the  sky  only.  Thus, 
where  calm  distant  water  receives  reflections  of  high  shores, 
every  extent  of  rippled  surface  appears  as  a  bright  line  in- 
terrupting that  reflection  with  the  color  of  the  sky. 

Fifth  :  When  a  ripple  or  swell  is  seen  at  such  an  angle  as 
to  afford  a  view  of  its  farther  side,  it  carries  the  reflection  of 
objects  farther  down  than  calm  water  would.    Therefore  all 
motion  in  water  elone^ates  reflections,  and  throws 

§  12.  Elongation  .  °  •     i    i .  rm 

of  reflections  by  them  into  coufuscd  Vertical  lines.     The  real 

moving  water.  /.    i  •       i  •        •  t     •  i 

amount  oi  this  elongation  is  not  distinctly  vis- 
ible, except  in  the  case  of  very  bright  objects,  and  especially 
of  lights,  as  of  the  sun,  moon,  or  lamps  by  a  river  shore, 
whose  reflections  are  hardly  ever  seen  as  circles  or  points, 
which  of  course  they  are  on  perfectly  calm  water,  but  as  long 
streams  of  tremulous  light. 

But  it  is  strange  that  while  we  are  constantly  in  the  habit 
of  seeing  the  reflection  of  the  sun,  which  ought  to  be  a  mere 
circle,  elongated  into  a  stream  of  light  extending  from  the 
horizon  to  the  shore,  the  elongation  of  the  reflection  of  a  sail 
or  other  object  to  one-half  of  this  extent  is  received,  if  rep- 
resented in  a  picture,  with  incredulity  by  the  greater  number 
of  spectators.  In  one  of  Turner's  Venices  the  image  of  the 
white  lateen-sails  of  the  principal  boat  is  about  twice  as  long 
as  the  sails  themselves.  I  have  heard  the  truth  of  this  simple 
effect  disputed  over  and  over  again  by  intelligent  persons, 
and  yet  on  any  water  so  exposed  as  the  lagoons  of  Venice, 
the  periods  are  few  and  short  when  there  is  so  little  motion 


92     OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


as  that  the  reflection  of  sails  a  mile  off  shall  not  affect  the 
swell  within  six  feet  of  the  spectator. 

There  is,  however,  a  strange  arbitrariness  about  this  elonga- 
tion of  reflection,  which  prevents  it  from  being  truly  felt.  If 
we  see  on  an  extent  of  lightly  swelling  water  surface  the 
image  of  a  bank  of  white  clouds,  with  masses  of  higher  ac- 
cumulation at  intervals,  the  water  will  not  usually  reflect  the 
whole  bank  in  an  elongated  form,  but  it  will  commonly  take 
the  eminent  parts,  and  reflect  them  in  long  straight  columns 
of  defined  breadth,  and  miss  the  intermediate  lower  parts 
altogether  ;  and  even  in  doing  this  it  will  be  capricious,  for 
it  will  take  one  eminence,  and  miss  another,  with  no  appar- 
ent reason  ;  and  often  when  the  sky  is  covered  with  white 
clouds,  some  of  those  clouds  will  cast  long  tower-like  reflec- 
tions, and  others  none,  so  arbitrarily  that  the  spectator  is 
often  puzzled  to  find  out  which  are  the  accepted  and  which 
the  refused. 

In  many  cases  of  this  kind  it  will  be  found  rather  that  the 
eye  is,  from  want  of  use  and  care,  insensible  to  the  reflection 
than  that  the  reflection  is  not  there  ;  and  a  little  thought 
and  careful  observation  will  show  us  that  what  we  commonly 
suppose  to  be  a  surface  of  uniform  color  is,  indeed,  affected 
more  or  less  by  an  infinite  variety  of  hues,  prolonged,  like 
the  sun  image,  from  a  great  distance,  and  that  our  appre- 
hension of  its  lustre,  purity,  and  even  of  its  surface,  is  in  no 
small  degree  dependent  on  our  feeling  of  these  multitudi- 
nous hues,  which  the  continual  motion  of  that  surface  pre- 
vents us  from  analyzing  or  understanding  for  what  they  are. 

Sixth  :  Rippled  water,  of  which  we  can  see  the  farther 
side  of  the  weaves,  will  reflect  a  perpendicular  line  clearly,  a 
bit  of  its  length  being  given  on  the  side  of  each  wave,  and 
§  18.  Effect  of  easily  joined  by  the  eye.  But  if  the  line  slope, 
hodionuf^^ami  reflection  will  be  excessively  confused  and 
inclined  images,  disjointed;  and  if  horizontal,  nearly  invisible.  It 
was  this  circumstance  which  prevented  the  red  and  white  stripe 
of  the  ships  at  Venice,  noticed  above,  from  being  visible. 

Seventh  :  Every  reflection  is  the  image  in  reverse  of  just 
so  much  of  the  objects  beside  the  water,  as  we  could  see  if 


OB'  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS.  93 


we  were  placed  as  much  under  the  level  of  the  water  as  we 
are  actually  above  it.  If  an  object  be  so  far  back  from  the 
§  14.  To  what  bank,  that  if  we  were  five  feet  under  the  water 
S'^wsibif  1^0^  level  we  could  not  see  it  over  the  bank,  then, 
above.  standing  five  feet  above  the  water,  we  shall  not 

be  able  to  see  its  image  under  the  reflected  bank.  Hence 
the  reflection  of  all  objects  that  have  any  slope  back  from 
the  water  is  shortened,  and  at  last  disappears  as  we  rise 
above  it.  Lakes  seen  from  a  great  height  appear  like  plates 
of  metal  set  in  the  landscape,  reflecting  the  sky  but  none  of 
their  shores. 

Eighth  :  Any  given  point  of  the  object  above  the  water 
is  reflected,  if  reflected  at  all,  at  some  spot  in  a  vertical  line 
beneath  it,  so  long  as  the  plane  of  the  water  is  horizontal, 
o      ^  «         On  rippled  water  a  slisrht  deflection  sometimes 

§  15    Deflection  ,  ° 

o  f  images  o  n  takes  place,  and  the  image  of  a  vertical  tower 

agitated  water.         ^^^    ^  ^^     ^  o  i  •  i 

Will  slope  a  little  away  irom  the  wind,  owing  to 
the  casting  of  the  image  on  the  sloping  sides  of  the  ripples. 
On  the  sloping  sides  of  large  waves  the  deflection  is  in  pro- 
portion to  the  slope.  For  rough  practice,  after  the  slope  of 
the  wave  is  determined,  let  the  artist  turn  his  paper  until  it 
becomes  horizontal,  and  then  paint  the  reflections  of  any  ob- 
ject upon  it  as  on  level  water,  and  he  will  be  right. 

Such  are  the  most  common  and  general  optical  laws  which 
are  to  be  taken  into  consideration  in  the  painting  of  water. 
Yet,  in  the  application  of  them,  as  tests  of  good  or  bad 

water  paintino;",  we  must  be  cautious  in  the  ex- 
ile.   Necessity  ^ 

of  watchfulness  trcme.    An  artist  may  know  all  these  laws,  and 

as  well  as  of  sci-  i         •  i  i 

ence.  comply  With  them,  and  yet  paint  water  execra- 

Licenses,  how   ,  ,  ,   ,  ,       .  .      /»  /. 

taken  by  gieat  bly  ;  and  he  may  be  ignorant  ot  every  one  of 
them,  and,  in  their  turn,  and  in  certain  places, 
violate  every  one  of  them,  and  yet  paint  water  gloriously. 
Thousands  of  exquisite  effects  take  place  in  nature,  utterly 
inexplicable,  and  which  can  be  believed  only  while  they  are 
seen  ;  the  combinations  and  applications  of  the  above  laws 
are  so  varied  and  complicated  that  no  knowledge  or  labor 
could,  if  applied  analytically,  keep  pace  with  them.  Con- 
stant and  eager  watchfulness,  and  portfolios  filled  with  actual 


94     OF  WATER,  A8  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


statements  of  water-effect,  drawn  on  the  spot  and  on  the  in^ 
stant,  are  worth  more  to  the  painter  than  the  most  extended 
optical  knowledge  ;  without  these  all  his  knowledge  will  end 
in  a  pedantic  falsehood.  With  these  it  does  not  matter  how 
gross  or  how  daring  here  and  there  may  be  his  violations  of 
this  or  that  law  ;  his  very  transgressions  will  be  admirable. 

It  may  be  said,  that  this  is  a  dangerous  principle  to  ad- 
vance in  these  days  of  idleness.  I  cannot  help  it  ;  it  is  true, 
and  must  be  affirmed.  Of  all  contemptible  criticism,  the 
most  to  be  contemned  is  that  which  punishes  great  works  of 
art  when  they  fight  without  armor,  and  refuses  to  feel  or  ac- 
knowledge the  great  spiritual  refracted  sun  of  their  truth, 
because  it  has  risen  at  a  false  angle,  and  burst  upon  them 
before  its  appointed  time.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  let 
it  be  observed  that  it  is  not  feeling,  nor  fancy,  nor  imagina- 
tion, so  called,  that  I  have  put  before  science,  but  watchful- 
ness, experience,  affection  and  trust  in  nature  ;  and  farther 
let  it  be  observed,  that  there  is  a  difference  between  the  li- 
cense taken  by  one  man  and  another,  which  makes  one  license 
admirable,  and  the  other  punishable  ;  and  that  this  difference 
is  of  a  kind  sufficiently  discernible  by  every  earnest  person, 
though  it  is  not  so  explicable  as  that  we  can  beforehand  say 
where  and  when,  or  even  to  whom,  the  license  is  to  be  for- 
given. In  the  Paradise  of  Tintoret,  in  the  Academy  of 
Venice,  the  Angel  is  seen  in  the  distance  driving  Adam  and 
Eve  out  of  the  garden.  Not,  for  Tintoret,  the  leading  to  the 
gate  with  consolation  or  counsel  ;  his  strange  ardor  of  con- 
ception is  seen  here  as  everywhere.  Full  speed  they  fly,  the 
angel  and  the  human  creatures  ;  the  angel  wrapt  in  an  orb  of 
light  floats  on,  stooped  forward  in  his  fierce  flight,  and  does 
not  touch  the  ground  ;  the  chastised  creatures  rush  before 
him  in  abandoned  terror.  All  this  might  have  been  invented 
by  another,  though  in  other  hands  it  would  assuredly  have 
been  offensive  ;  but  one  circumstance  which  completes  the 
story  could  have  been  thought  of  or  dared  by  none  but  Tinto- 
ret. The  Angel  cast  a  shadow  before  him  towards  Adam 
and  Eve. 

Now  that  a  globe  of  light  should  cast  a  shadow  is  a  license^ 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS,  95 


as  far  as  mere  optical  matters  are  concerned,  of  the  most  au- 
dacious kind.  But  how  beautiful  is  the  circumstance  in  its 
application  here,  showing  that  the  angel,  who  is  light  to  all 
else  around  him,  is  darkness  to  those  whom  he  is  commis- 
sioned to  banish  forever. 

I  have  before  noticed  the  license  of  Rubens  in  making  his 
horizon  an  oblique  line.  His  object  is. to  carry  the  eye  to  a 
given  point  in  the  distance.  The  road  winds  to  it,  the  clouds 
fl}"  at  it,  the  trees  nod  to  it,  a  flock  of  sheep  scamper  towards 
it,  a  carter  points  his  whip  at  it,  his  horses  pull  for  it,  the 
figures  push  for  it,  and  the  horizon  slopes  to  it.  If  the  hori- 
zon had  been  horizontal,  it  would  have  embarrassed  every- 
thing and  everybody. 

In  Turner's  Pas  de  Calais  there  is  a  buoy  poised  on  the 
ridge  of  a  near  wave.  It  casts  its  reflection  vertically  down 
the  flank  of  the  wave,  which  slopes  steeply.  I  cannot  tell 
whether  this  is  a  license  or  a  mistake  ;  I  suspect  the  latter, 
for  the  same  thing  occurs  not  unfrequently  in  Turner's  seas  ; 
but  I  am  almost  certain  that  it  would  have  been  done  wil- 
fully in  this  case,  even  had  the  mistake  been  pointed  out,  for 
the  vertical  line  is  necessary  to  the  picture,  and  the  eye  is  so 
little  accustomed  to  catch  the  real  bearing  of  the  reflections 
on  the  slopes  of  waves  that  it  does  not  feel  the  fault. 

In  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  of  the  Uflizii  at  Florence,  off 
the  Tribune,  there  are  two  so-called  Claudes ;  one  a  pretty 
wooded  landscape,  I  think  a  copy,  the  other  a  marine  with 
„  ^„   ,    .      .    architecture,  very  sweet  and  e^enuine.    The  sun 

§  17.    Various  li-    .  .  '        *^   .  ^  . 

censes  or  errors  IS  Setting  at  the  sidc  of  the  picture,  it  casts  a 

in  water  painting    ,  r»    t    i  ^  mi  • 

of  Claude,  Cuyp,  long  Stream  ot  light  upon  the  water,  ihis 
stream  of  light  is  oblique,  and  comes  from  the 
horizon,  where  it  is  under  the  sun,  to  a  point  near  the  centre 
of  the  picture.  If  this  had  been  done  as  a  license,  it  would 
be  an  instance  of  most  absurd  and  unjustifiable  license,  as  the 
fault  is  detected  by  the  eye  in  a  moment,  and  there  is  no 
occasion  nor  excuse  for  it.  But  I  imagine  it  to  be  an  instance 
rather  of  the  harm  of  imperfect  science.  Taking  his  im- 
pression instinctively  from  nature,  Claude  usually  did  what 
is  right  and  put  his  reflection  vertically  under  the  sun  ;  prob- 


96     OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS, 


ably,  however,  he  had  read  in  some  treatise  on  optics  that 
every  point  in  this  reflection  was  in  a  vertical  plane  between 
the  sun  and  spectator  ;  or  he  might  have  noticed  walking  on 
the  shore  that  the  reflection  came  straight  from  the  sun  to 
his  feet,  and  intending  to  indicate  the  position  of  the  spec- 
tator, drew  in  his  next  picture  the  reflection  sloping  to  the 
supposed  point,  the  error  being  excusable  enough,  and  plau- 
sible enough  to  have  been  lately  revived  and  systematized.* 

In  the  picture  of  Cuyp,  No.  83  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  the 
post  at  the  end  of  the  bank  casts  three  or  four  radiating  re- 
flections. This  is  visibly  neither  license  nor  half  science,  but 
pure  ignorance.  Again,  in  the  picture  attributed  to  Paul 
Potter,  No.  176,  Dulwich  Gallery,  I  believe  most  people  must 
feel,  the  moment  they  look  at  it,  that  there  is  something 
wrong  with  the  water,  that  it  looks  odd,  and  hard,  and  like 
ice  or  lead  ;  and  though  they  may  not  be  able  to  tell  the  rea- 
son of  the  impression — for  when  they  go  near  they  will  find 
it  smooth  and  lustrous,  and  prettily  painted — yet  they  will 
not  be  able  to  shake  off  the  unpleasant  sense  of  its  being  like 
a  plate  of  bad  mirror  set  in  a  model  landscape  among  moss, 
rather  than  like  a  pond.  The  reason  is,  that  while  this  water 
receives  clear  reflections  from  the  fence  and  hedge  on  the  left, 
and  is  everywhere  smooth  and  evidently  capable  of  giving 
true  images,  it  yet  reflects  none  of  the  cows. 

In  the  Vandevelde  (113)  there  is  not  a  line  of  ripple  or 
swell  in  any  part  of  the  sea  ;  it  is  absolutely  windless,  and  the 

*  Parsey's  Convergence  of  Perpendiculars."  I  have  not  space  here 
to  enter  into  any  leng^thy  exposure  of  this  mistake,  but  reasoning  is  fort- 
unately unnecessary,  the  appeal  to  experin^ent  being  easy.  Every  pict- 
ure is  the  representation,  as  before  stated,  of  a  vertical  plate  of  glass, 
with  what  might  be  seen  through  it,  drawn  on  its  surface.  Let  a  verti- 
cal plate  of  glass  be  taken,  and  wherever  it  be  placed,  whether  the  sun 
be  at  its  side  or  at  its  centre,  the  reflection  will  always  be  found  in  a 
vertical  line  under  the  sun,  parallel  with  the  side  of  the  glass.  The  pane 
of  any  window  looking  to  sea  is  all  the  apparatus  necessary  for  this  ex- 
periment, and  yet  it  is  not  long  since  this  very  principle  was  disputed 
with  me  by  a  man  of  much  taste  and  information,  who  supposed  Turner 
to  be  wrong  in  drawing  the  reflection  straight  down  at  the  side  of  hia 
picture,  as  in  his  Lancaster  Sands,  and  innumerable  other  instances. 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS,  97 


near  boat  casts  its  image  with  great  fidelity,  which  being  un- 
prolonged  downwards  informs  us  that  the  cahn  is  perfect, 
(Rule  y.,)  and  being  unshortened  informs  us  that  we  are  on 
a  level  with  the  water,  or  nearly  so.  (Rule  VII.)  Yet  un- 
derneath the  vessel  on  the  right,  the  gray  shade  which  stands 
for  reflection  breaks  off  immediately,  descending  like  smoke 
a  little  way  below  the  hull,  then  leaving  the  masts  and  sails 
entirely  unrecorded.  This  I  imagine  to  be  not  ignorance, 
but  unjustifiable  license.  Vandevelde  evidently  desired  to 
give  an  impression  of  great  extent  of  surface,  and  thought 
that  if  he  gave  the  reflection  more  faithfully,  as  the  tops  of 
the  masts  would  come  down  to  the  nearest  part  of  the  sur- 
face, they  would  destroy  the  evidence  of  distance,  and  appear 
to  set  the  ship  above  the  boat  instead  of  beyond  it.  I  doubt 
not  in  such  awkward  hands  that  such  would  indeed  have  been 
the  case,  but  he  is  not  on  that  account  to  be  excused  for 
painting  his  surface  with  gray  horizontal  lines,  as  is  done  by 
nautically-disposed  children  ;  for  no  destruction  of  distance  in 
the  ocean  is  so  serious  a  loss  as  that  of  its  liquidity.  It  is 
better  to  feel  a  want  of  extent  in  the  sea,  than  an  extent 
which  we  might  walk  upon  or  play  at  billiards  upon. 

Among  all  the  pictures  of  Canaletto,  which  I  have  ever 
seen,  and  they  are  not  a  few,  I  remember  but  one  or  two 
where  there  is  any  variation  from  one  method  of  treatment  of 
§  18  And  Cana-  Water.  He  almost  always  covers  the  whole 
1^^*^-  space  of  it  with  one  monotonous  ripple,  composed 

of  a  coat  of  well-chosen,  but  perfectly  opaque  and  smooth  sea- 
green,  covered  with  a  certain  number,  I  cannot  state  the  ex- 
act average,  but  it  varies  from  three  hundred  and  fifty  to 
four  hundred  and  upwards,  according  to  the  extent  of  canvas 
to  be  covered,  of  white  concave  touches,  which  are  very  prop- 
erly symbolical  of  ripple. 

And,  as  the  canal  retires  back  from  the  eye,  he  very  geo- 
metrically diminishes  the  size  of  his  ripples,  until  he  arrives 
at  an  even  field  of  apparently  smooth  water.  By  our  sixth 
rule,  this  rippling  water  as  it  retires  should  show  more  and 
more  of  the  reflection  of  the  sky  above  it,  and  less  and  less 
of  that  of  objects  beyond  it,  until,  at  two  or  three  hundred 
Vol.  II.— 7 


98     OF  WATER,  A8  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


yards  down  the  canal,  the  whole  field  of  water  should  be  one 
even  gray  or  blue,  the  color  of  the  sky  receiving  no  reflections 
whatever  of  other  objects.  What  does  Canaletto  do  ?  Ex- 
actly in  proportion  as  he  retires,  he  displays  more  and  more 
of  the  reflection  of  objects,  and  less  and  less  of  the  sky,  until, 
three  hundred  yards  away,  all  the  houses  are  reflected  as  clear 
and  sharp  as  in  a  quiet  lake. 

This,  again,  is  wilful  and  inexcusable  violation  of  truth,  of 
which  the  reason,  as  in  the  last  case,  is  the  painter's  conscious- 
ness of  weakness.  It  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  things  in  the 
world  to  express  the  light  reflection  of  the  blue  sky  on  a  dis- 
tant ripple,  and  to  make  the  eye  understand  the  cause  of  the 
color,  and  the  motion  of  the  apparently  smooth  water,  es- 
pecially where  there  are  buildings  above  to  be  reflected,  for 
the  eye  never  understands  the  want  of  the  reflection.  But  it 
is  the  easiest  and  most  agreeable  thing  in  the  world  to  give 
the  inverted  image  :  it  occupies  a  vast  space  of  otherwise 
troublesome  distance  in  the  simplest  way  possible,  and  is  un- 
derstood by  the  eye  at  once.  Hence  Canaletto  is  glad,  as  any 
other  inferior  workman  would  be,  not  to  say  obliged,  to  give 
the  reflections  in  the  distance.  But  when  he  comes  up  close 
to  the  spectator,  he  finds  the  smooth  surface  just  as  trouble- 
some near,  as  the  ripple  would  have  been  far  off.  It  is  a  very 
nervous  thing  for  an  ignorant  artist  to  have  a  great  space  of 
vacant  smooth  water  to  deal  with,  close  to  him,  too  far  down 
to  take  reflections  from  buildings,  and  yet  which  must  be 
made  to  look  flat  and  retiring  and  transparent.  Canaletto, 
with  his  sea-green,  did  not  at  all  feel  himself  equal  to  any- 
thino:  of  this  kind,  and  had  therefore  no  resource  but  in  the 
white  touches  above  described,  which  occupy  the  alarming 
space  without  any  troublesome  necessity  for  knowledge  or 
invention,  and  supply  by  their  gradual  diminution  some  means 
of  expressing  retirement  of  surface.  It  is  easily  understood, 
therefore,  why  he  should  adopt  this  system,  which  is  just  what 
any  awkward  workman  would  naturally  cling  to,  trusting  to 
the  inaccuracy  of  observation  of  the  public  to  secure  him 
from  detection. 

Now  in  all  these  cases  it  is  not  the  mistake  or  the  license 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS,  99 


itself,  it  is  not  the  infringement  of  this  or  that  law  which  con- 
demns the  picture,  but  it  is  the  spirit  and  habit  of  mind  in 
c  in  TTru  which  the  license  is  taken,  the  cowardice  or  blunt- 

§  19.  Why  unpar-  _  ^  ' 

douabie.  ncss  of  feeling,  which  infects  every  part  alike, 

and  deprives  the  whole  picture  of  vitality.  Canaletto,  had 
he  been  a  great  painter,  might  have  cast  his  reflections  wher- 
ever he  chose,  and  rippled  the  water  wherever  he  chose,  and 
painted  his  sea  sloping  if  he  chose,  and  neither  I  nor  any  one 
else  should  have  dared  to  say  a  word  against  him  ;  but  he  is 
a  little  and  a  bad  painter,  and  so  continues  everywhere  multi- 
plying and  magnifying  mistakes,  and  adding  apathy  to  error, 
until  nothing  can  any  more  be  pardoned  in  him.  If  it  be 
but  remembered  that  every  one  of  the  surfaces  of  those  mul- 
titudinous ripples  is  in  nature  a  mirror  which  catches,  accord- 
ing to  its  position,  either  the  image  of  the  sky  or  of  the  sil- 
ver beaks  of  the  gondolas,  or  of  their  black  bodies  and  scarlet 
draperies,  or  of  the  white  marble,  or  the  green  sea-weed  on 
the  low  stones,  it  cannot  but  be  felt  that  those  waves  would 
have  something  more  of  color  upon  them  than  that  opaque 
dead  green.  Green  they  are  by  their  own  nature,  but  it  is  a 
transparent  and  emerald  hue,  mixing  itself  with  the  thousand 
reflected  tints  without  overpowering  the  weakest  of  them  ; 
and  thus,  in  every  one  of  those  individual  weaves,  the  truths 
of  color  are  contradicted  by  Canaletto  by  the  thousand. 

Venice  is  sad  and  silent  now,  to  what  she  w^as  in  his  time  ; 
the  canals  are  choked  gradually  one  by  one,  and  the  foul 
water  laps  more  and  more  sluggishly  against  the  rent 
foundations  ;  but  even  yet,  could  I  but  place  the  reader  at 
the  early  morning  on  the  quay  below  the  Rialto,  when  the 
market  boats,  full  laden,  float  into  groups  of  golden  color, 
and  let  him  watch  the  dashing  of  the  water  about  their  glit- 
tering steely  heads,  and  under  the  shadows  of  the  vine 
leaves,  and  show  him  the  purple  of  the  grapes  and  the  figs, 
and  the  glowing  of  the  scarlet  gourds  carried  away  in  long 
streams  upon  the  waves,  and  among  them,  the  crimson  fish 
baskets,  plashing  and  sparkling,  and  flaming  as  the  morn- 
ing sun  falls  on  their  wet  tawny  sides,  and  above,  the 
painted  sails  of  the  fishing  boats,  orange  and  white,  scarlet 


100  OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


and  blue,  and  better  than  all  such  florid  color,  the  naked, 
bronzed,  burning  limbs  of  the  seamen,  the  last  of  the  old 
Venetian  race,  who  yet  keep  the  right  Giorgione  color 
on  their  brows  and  bosoms,  in  strange  contrast  with  the 
sallow  sensual  degradation  of  the  creatures  that  live  in  the 
cafes  of  the  Piazza,  he  would  not  be  merciful  to  Canaletto 
any  more. 

Yet  even  Canaletto,  in  relation  to  the  truths  he  had 
to  paint,  is  spiritual,  faithful,  powerful,  compared  to  the 
Dutch  painters  of  sea.  It  is  easily  understood  why  his  green 
§20.  The  Dutch  P^int  and  concave  touches  should  be  thought 
painters  of  sea.  expressive  of  the  water  on  which  the  real  colors 
are  not  to  be  discerned  but  by  attention,  which  is  never 
given  ;  but  it  is  not  so  easily  understood,  considering  how 
many  there  are  who  love  the  sea,  and  look  at  it,  that  Vande- 
velde  and  such  others  should  be  tolerated.  As  I  before  said, 
I  feel  utterly  hopeless  in  addressing  the  admirers  of  these 
men,  because  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  in  their  works  which 
is  supposed  to  be  like  nature.  Foam  appears  to  me  to 
curdle  and  cream  on  the  wave  sides  and  to  fly,  flashing  from 
their  crests,  and  not  to  be  set  astride  upon  them  like  a 
peruke  ;  and  waves  appear  to  me  to  fall,  and  plunge,  and 
toss,  and  nod,  and  crash  over,  and  not  to  curl  up  like  shav- 
ings ;  and  water  appears  to  me,  when  it  is  gray,  to  have  the 
gray  of  stormy  air  mixed  with  its  own  deep,  heavy,  thunder- 
ous, threatening  blue,  and  not  the  gray  of  the  first  coat  of 
cheap  paint  on  a  deal  floor  ;  and  many  other  such  things 
appear  to  me  which,  as  far  as  I  can  conjecture  by  what  is 
admired  of  marine  painting,  appear  to  no  one  else  ;  yet  I 
shall  have  something  more  to  say  about  these  men  presently, 
with  respect  to  the  effect  they  have  had  upon  Turner  ;  and 
something  more,  I  hope,  hereafter,  with  the  help  of  illustra- 
tion. 

There  is  a  sea-piece  of  Ruysdael's  in  the  Louvre  *  which, 

*  In  the  last  edition  of  this  work  was  the  following  passage: — **I 
wish  Ruysdael  had  painted  one  or  two  rough  seas.  I  believe  if  he  had 
he  might  have  saved  the  unhappy  public  from  much  grievous  victim- 
izing, both  in  mind  and  pocket,  for  he  would  have  shown  that  Vande- 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAmTEB  BY  THE  ANCIENTS.  101 


though  nothing  very  remarkable  in  any  quality  of  art,  is  at 
least  forceful,  agreeable,  and,  as  far  as  it  goes,  natural  ; 

the  waves  have  much  freedom  of  action,  and 

§  21.  Ruysdael,  -lUl 

Claude,  and  Sal-  power  oi  color  ;  the  Wind  blows  hard  over  the 
shore,  and  the  whole  picture  may  be  studied 
with  profit  as  a  proof  that  the  deficiency  of  color  and  every- 
thing else  in  Backhuysen's  works,  is  no  fault  of  the  Dutch 
sea.  There  is  sublimity  and  power  in  every  field  of  nature 
from  the  pole  to  the  line  ;  and  though  the  painters  of  one 
country  are  often  better  and  greater,  universally,  than  those 
of  another,  this  is  less  because  the  subjects  of  art  are  want- 
ing anywhere,  than  because  one  country  or  one  age  breeds 
mighty  and  thinking  men,  and  another  none. 

RuysdaePs  painting  of  falling  water  and  brook  scenery  is 
also  generally  agreeable — more  than  agreeable  it  can  hardly 
be  considered.  There  appears  no  exertion  of  mind  in  any  of 
his  works  ;  nor  are  they  calculated  to  produce  either  harm 
or  good  by  their  feeble  influence.  They  are  good  furniture 
pictures,  unworthy  of  praise,  and  undeserving  of  blame. 

The  seas  of  Claude  are  the  finest  pieces  of  water-painting 
in  ancient  art.  I  do  not  say  that  I  like  them,  because  they 
appear  to  me  selections  of  the  particular  moment  when  the 
sea  is  most  insipid  and  characterless  ;  but  I  think  that  they 
are  exceedingly  true  to  the  forms  and  time  selected,  or  at 
least  that  the  fine  instances  of  them  are  so,  of  which  there 
are  exceedingly  few. 

On  the  right  hand  of  one  of  the  marines  of  Salvator,  in 
the  Pitti  palace,  there  is  a  passage  of  sea  reflecting  the  sun- 
rise, which  is  thoroughly  good,  and  very  like  Turner ;  the 
rest  of  the  picture,  as  the  one  opposite  to  it,  utterly  virtue- 

velde  and  Backhnysen  were  not  quite  sea-deities."  The  writer  has  to 
thauk  the  editor  of  Murray's  Handbook  of  Painting  in  Italy  for  pointing 
out  the  oversight.  He  had  passed  many  days  in  the  Louvre  before  the 
above  passage  was  written,  but  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  pausing 
long  anywhere  except  in  the  Inst  two  rooms,  containing  the  pictures  of 
the  Italian  school.  The  conjecture,  however,  shows  that  he  had  not  ill- 
estiraated  the  power  of  Ruysdael;  nor  does  he  consider  it  as  in  any- 
wise unfitting  him  for  the  task  he  has  undertaken,  that  for  every  hour 
passed  in  galleries  he  has  passed  days  on  the  sea-shore. 


102  OF  WATER,  AS  PAIFTEB  BY  THE  ANCIENTS. 


less.  I  have  not  seen  any  other  instance  of  Salvator's  paint- 
ing water  with  any  care,  it  is  usually  as  conventional  as  the 
rest  of  his  work,  yet  conventionalisai  is  perhaps  more  toler- 
able in  water-painting  than  elsewhere  ;  and  if  his  trees  and 
rocks  had  been  good,  the  rivers  might  have  been  generally 
accepted  without  objection. 

The  merits  of  Poussin  as  a  sea  or  water  painter  may,  I 
§  22.  Nicholas  think,  be  sufficiently  determined  by  the  Deluge 
Poussin.  ^jjg  Louvre,  where  the  breaking  up  of  the 

fountains  of  the  deep  is  typified  by  the  capsizing  of  a  wherry 
over  a  weir. 

In  the  outer  porch  of  St.  Mark's  at  Venice,  among  the 
mosaics  on  the  roof,  there  is  a  representation  of  the  deluge. 
The  ground  is  dark  blue  ;  the  rain  is  represented  in  bright 
wliite  undulating  parallel  stripes  ;  between  these  stripes  is 
seen  the  massy  outline  of  the  ark,  a  bit  between  each  stripe, 
very  dark  and  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  sky  ;  but  it 
has  a  square  window  with  a  bright  golden  border,  which 
glitters  out  conspicuously,  and  leads  the  eye  to  the  rest — 
the  sea  below  is  almost  concealed  with  dead  bodies. 

On  the  font  of  the  church  of  San  Frediano  at  Lucca,  there 
is  a  representation  of — possibly — the  Israelites  and  Egyp- 
tians in  the  Red  Sea.  The  sea  is  typified  by  undulating  bands 
of  stone,  each  band  composed  of  three  plies  (almost  the  same 
type  is  to  be  seen  in  the  glass-painting  of  the  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  centuries,  as  especially  at  Chartres).  These  bands 
would  perhaps  be  hardly  felt  as  very  aqueous,  but  for  the 
fish  which  are  interwoven  with  them  in  a  complicated  man- 
ner, their  heads  appearing  at  one  side  of  every  band,  and 
their  tails  at  the  other. 

Both  of  these  representatives  of  deluge,  archaic  and  rude 
as  they  are,  I  consider  better,  more  suggestive,  more  inven- 
tive, and  more  natural,  than  Poussin's.  Indeed,  this  is  not 
saying  anything  very  depreciatory,  as  regards  the  St.  Mark's 
one,  for  the  glittering  of  the  golden  window  through  the 
rain  is  wonderfully  well  conceived,  and  almost  deceptive, 
looking  as  if  it  had  just  caught  a  gleam  of  sunlight  on  its 
panes,  and  there  is  something  very  sublime  in  the  gleam  of 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  ANCIENTS,  103 


this  light  above  the  floating  corpses.  But  the  other  in- 
stance is  sufficiently  grotesque  and  imperfect,  and  yet,  I 
speak  with  perfect  seriousness,  it  is,  I  think,  very  far  prefer- 
able to  Poussin's. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  just  medium  between  the 
meanness  and  apathy  of  such  a  conception  as  his,  and  the 
extravagance,  still  more  contemptible,  with  which  the  sub- 
ject has  been  treated  in  modern  days.*  I  am  not  aware  that 
I  can  refer  to  any  instructive  example  of  this  intermediate 
course,  for  I  fear  the  reader  is  by  this  time  wearied  of  hear- 
ing of  Turner,  and  the  plate  of  Turner's  picture  of  the  deluge 
is  so  rare  that  it  is  of  no  use  to  refer  to  it. 

It  seems  exceedingly  strange  that  the  great  Venetian 
painters  should  have  left  us  no  instance,  as  far  as  I  know, 
of  any  marine  effects  carefully  studied.  As  already  noted, 
whatever  passas^es  of  sea  occur  in  their  back- 

§23.    Venetians  ^  1      U       ^         ^4-        4?  kl 

and  Florentines,  grounds  are  merely  broad  extents  ot  blue  or 

Conclusion.  «  n         '  ^  i  •  i  i 

green  surtace,  line  m  color,  and  coming  dark 
usually  against  the  horizon,  well  enough  to  be  understood 
as  sea,  (yet  even  that  not  always  without  the  help  of  a  ship,) 
but  utterly  unregarded  in  all  questions  of  completion  and 
detail.  The  water  even  in  Titian's  landscape  is  almost  al- 
ways violently  though  grandly  conventional,  and  seldom 
forms  an  important  feature.  Among  the  religious  schools 
very  sweet  motives  occur,  but  nothing  which  for  a  moment 
can  be  considered  as  real  water-painting.  Perugino's  sea  is 
usually  very  beautifully  felt  ;  his  river  in  the  fresco  of  S*^ 
Maddalena  at  Florence  is  freely  indicated,  and  looks  level 
and  clear  ;  the  reflections  of  the  trees  given  with  a  rapid  zig- 
zag stroke  of  the  brush.  On  the  whole,  I  suppose  that  the 
best  imitations  of  level  water  surface  to  be  found  in  ancient 
art  are  in  the  clear  Flemish  landscapes.  Cuyp's  are  usually 
very  satisfactory,  but  even  the  best  of  these  attain  nothing 
more  than  the  agreeable  suggestion  of  calm  pond  or  river. 

*  I  am  here,  of  course,  speaking  of  the  treatment  of  the  subject  as  a 
landscape  only  ;  many  mighty  examples  of  its  conception  occar  where 
the  sea,  and  all  other  adjuncts,  are  entirely  subservient  to  the  figures, 
as  with  Kaffaelle  and  M.  Angelo. 


104    OF  WATER,  A8  PAINTED  BY  THE  MODERNS. 


Of  any  tolerable  representation  of  water  in  agitation,  or  un- 
der any  circumstances  that  bring  out  its  power  and  char- 
acter, I  know  no  instance  ;  and  the  more  capable  of  noble 
treatment  the  subject  happens  to  be,  the  more  manifest  in- 
variably is  the  painter's  want  of  feeling  in  every  effort,  and 
of  knowledge  in  every  line. 


CHAPTER  11. 

OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  MODERNS. 

There  are  few  men  among  modern  landscape  painters, 
who  cannot  paint  quiet  water  at  least  suggestively,  if  not 
faithfully.  Those  who  are  incapable  of  doing  this,  would 
§1  General  Scarcely  be  considered  artists  at  all;  and  any- 
Zr™. tapaS?-  thing  like  the  ripples  of  Canaletto,  or  the  black 
ing  quiet  water,  ghadows  of  Vandevelde,  would  be  looked  upon 

Thelakesof  ^  ^  '  ^ 

Fielding.  as  most  Unpromising,  even  in  the  work  of  a 

novice.  Among  those  who  most  fully  appreciate  and  render 
the  qualities  of  space  and  surface  in  calm  water,  perhaps 
Copley  Fielding  stands  first.  His  expanses  of  windless  lake 
are  among  the  most  perfect  passages  of  his  works  ;  for  he 
can  give  surface  as  well  as  depth,  and  make  his  lake  look  not 
only  clear,  but,  which  is  far  more  difficult,  lustrous.  He  is 
less  dependent  than  most  of  our  artists  upon  reflections  ;  and 
can  give  substance,  transparency,  and  extent,  where  another 
painter  would  be  reduced  to  paper  ;  and  he  is  exquisitely  re- 
fined in  his  expression  of  distant  breadth,  by  the  delicate 
line  of  ripple  interrupting  the  reflection,  and  by  aerial  quali- 
ties of  color.  Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  purer  or  more  refined 
than  liis  general  feeling  of  lake  sentiment,  were  it  not  for  a 
want  of  simplicity — a  fondness  for  pretty,  rather  than  im- 
pressive color,  and  a  consequent  want  of  some  of  the  higher 
expression  of  repose. 

Hundreds  of  men  might  be  named,  whose  works  are  highly 
§2.  The  calm  instructive  in  the  management  of  calm  water. 
Wintf  ^  j.^^ioi^  Wint  is  singularly  powerful  and  certain,  ex- 
land,  etc.  quisitely  bright  and  vigorous  in  color.    The  late 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  MODERNS,  105 


John  Varley  produced  some  noble  passages.  I  have  seen, 
some  seven  years  ago,  works  by  J.  Holland,  w^hich  were,  1 
think,  as  near  perfection  as  water-color  can  be  carried — for 
bona  Jide  truth,  refined  and  finished  to  the  highest  degree. 
But  the  power  of  modern  artists  is  not  brought  out  until  they 
have  greater  difficulties  to  struggle  with.  Stand  for  half  an 
hour  beside  the  fall  of  Schaffhausen,  on  the 

§  3.  The  character  i      •  i        i  i  •  i  i  i  i 

of  bright  and  vio-  north  Side  where  the  rapids  are  long,  and  watch 
lent faihng  water.  -^^^  ^j^^  vault  of  Water  first  bends,  unbroken,  in 
pure,  polished  velocity,  over  the  arching  rocks  at  the  brow 
of  the  cataract,  covering  them  with  a  dome  of  crystal  twenty 
feet  thick — so  swift  that  its  motion  is  unseen  except  when  a 
foam  globe  from  above  darts  over  it  like  a  falling  star  ;  and 
how  the  trees  are  lighted  above  it  under  all  their  leaves,  at  the 
instant  that  it  breaks  into  foam  ;  and  how  all  the  hollows  of 
that  foam  burn  with  green  fire  like  so  much  shattering  chrys- 
oprase  ;  and  how,  ever  and  anon,  startling  you  with  its 
w^iite  flash,  a  jet  of  spray  leaps  hissing  out  of  the  fall  like  a 
rocket,  bursting  in  the  wind  and  driven  away  in  dust,  filling 
the  air  wdth  lio-ht  :  and  how,  throuo^h  the  curdling^  wreaths 
of  the  restless,  crashing  abyss  below,  the  blue  of  the  water, 
paled  by  the  foam  in  its  body,  shows  purer  than  the  sky 
through  white  rain-cloud  ;  while  the  shuddering  iris  stoops 
in  tremulous  stillness  overall,  fading  and  flushing  alternately 
through  the  choking  spray  and  shattered  sunshine,  hiding 
itself  at  last  among  the  thick  golden  leaves  which  toss  to 
and  fro  in  sympathy  with  the  wild  water  ;  their  dripping 
masses  lifted  at  intervals,  like  sheaves  of  loaded  corn,  by 
some  stronger  gush  from  the  cataract,  and  bowed  again  upon 
the  mossy  rocks  as  its  roar  dies  away  ;  the  dew  gushing  from 
their  thick  branches  through  drooping  clusters  of  emerald 
herbage,  and  sparkling  in  white  threads  along  the  dark  rocks 
of  the  shore,  feeding  the  lichens  which  chase  and  checker 
them  with  purple  and  silver.  I  believe,  when  you  have  stood 
by  this  for  half  an  hour,  you  will  have  discovered  that  there 
§4.  As  given  Something  more  in  nature  than  has  been 
by  Nesfieid.  given  by  Ruysdael.  Probably  you  will  not  be 
much  disposed  to  think  of  any  mortal  work  at  the  time  ;  but 


106    OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  MODEBNS. 


when  you  look  back  to  what  you  have  seen,  and  are  inclined 
to  compare  it  with  art,  you  will  remember — or  ought  to  re- 
member— Nesfield.  He  is  a  man  of  extraordinary  feeling, 
both  for  the  color  and  the  spirituality  of  a  great  waterfall  ; 
exquisitely  delicate  in  his  management  of  the  changeful  veil 
of  spray  or  mist  ;  just  in  his  curves  and  contours  ;  and 
unequalled  in  color  except  by  Turner.  None  of  our  water- 
color  painters  can  approach  him  in  the  management  of  the 
variable  hues  of  clear  water  over  weeded  rocks  ;  but  his  feel- 
ing for  it  often  leads  him  a  little  too  far,  and,  like  Copley 
Fielding,  he  loses  sight  of  simplicity  and  dignity  for  the  sake 
of  delicacy  or  prettiness.  His  waterfalls  are,  however,  un- 
equalled in  their  way  ;  and,  if  he  would  remember,  that  in 
all  such  scenes  there  is  much  gloom  as  well  as  much  splendor, 
and  relieve  the  lustre  of  his  attractive  passages  of  color  with 
more  definite  and  prevalent  grays,  and  give  a  little  more  sub- 
stance to  parts  of  his  picture  unaffected  by  spray,  his  work 
would  be  nearly  perfect.  His  seas  are  also  most  instructive  ; 
a  little  confused  in  chiaroscuro,  but  refined  in  form  and  ad- 
mirable in  color. 

J.  D.  Harding  is,  I  think,  nearly  unequalled  in  the  drava^ 
ing  of  running  water.    I  do  not  know  what  Stanfield  would 
do  ;  I  have  never  seen  an  important  piece  of  torrent  drawn 
mu    ^  •  V.1    by  him  ;  but  I  believe  even  he  could  scarce- 

§5.  The  admirable      *^  . 

water-drawing  of  ly  contend  with  the  magnificent  abandon  of 

J.  D.  Harding.  ^  . 

Harding's  brush.  There  is  perhaps  nothing 
which  tells  more  in  the  drawing  of  water  than  decisive  and 
swift  execution  ;  for,  in  a  rapid  touch  the  hand  naturally 
falls  into  the  very  curve  of  projection  which  is  the  absolute 
truth  ;  while  in  slow  finish,  all  precision  of  curve  and  char- 
acter is  certain  to  be  lost,  except  under  the  hand  of  an  un- 
usually powerful  master.  But  Harding  has  both  knowledge 
and  velocity,  and  the  fall  of  his  torrents  is  beyond  praise  ; 
impatient,  chafing,  substantial,  shattering,  crystalline,  and 
capricious  ;  full  of  various  form,  yet  all  apparently  instan- 
taneous and  accidental,  nothing  conventional,  nothing  de- 
pendent upon  parallel  lines  or  radiating  curves  ;  all  broken 
up  and  dashed  to  pieces  over  the  irregular  rock,  and  yet  all 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  MODERNS.  107 


in  unity  of  motion.  The  color  also  of  his  falling  and  bright 
water  is  very  perfect  ;  but  in  the  dark  and  level  parts  of  his 
torrents  he  has  taken  up  a  bad  gray,  which  has 
!nd  S^tfng^^of  hurt  some  of  his  best  pictures.  His  gray  in 
shadows  under  rocks  or  dark  reflections  is  adv 
mirable  ;  but  it  is  when  the  stream  is  in  full  light,  and  un- 
affected by  reflections  in  distance,  that  he  gets  wrong.  We 
believe  that  the  fault  is  in  a  want  of  expression  of  darkness 
in  the  color,  making  it  appear  like  a  positive  hue  of  the 
water,  for  which  it  is  much  too  dead  and  cold. 

Harding  seldom  paints  sea,  and  it  is  well  for  Stanfield  that 
he  does  not,  or  the  latter  would  have  to  look  to  his  crown. 
All  that  we  have  seen  from  his  hand  is,  as  coast  sea,  quite 
faultless  ;  we  only  wish  he  would  paint  it  more  frequently  ; 
always,  however,  with  a  veto  upon  French  fishing-boats.  In 
'the  Exhibition  of  1842,  he  spoiled  one  of  the  most  superb 
pieces  of  seashore  and  sunset  which  modern  art  has  pro- 
duced, with  the  pestilent  square  sail  of  one  of  these  clumsy 
craft,  which  the  eye  could  not  escape  from. 

Before  passing  to  our  great  sea  painter,  we  must  again  refer 
to  the  works  of  Copley  Fielding.  It  is  with  his  sea  as  with 
§  7  The  sea  of  Only  paint  one,  and  that  an  easy 

Copley  Fielding,  one,  but  it  is,  for  all  that,  an  impressive  and  a 

Its  exceeding 

grace  and  rapid-  true  One.  No  man  has  ever  given,  with  the  same 
flashing  freedom,  the  race  of  a  running  tide 
under  a  stiff  breeze,  nor  caught,  with  the  same  grace  and 
precision,  the  curvature  of  the  breaking  wave,  arrested  or 
accelerated  by  the  wind.  The  forward  fling  of  his  foam, 
and  the  impatient  run  of  his  surges,  whose  quick,  redoubling 
dash  we  can  almost  hear,  as  they  break  in  their  haste  upon 
their  own  bosoms,  are  nature  itself,  and  his  sea  gray  or  green 
was,  nine  years  ago,  very  right,  as  color  ;  always  a  little 
wanting  in  transparency,  but  never  cold  or  toneless.  Since 
that  time,  he  seems  to  have  lost  the  sense  of  greenness  in 
water,  and  has  verged  more  and  more  on  the  purple  and 
black,  with  unhappy  results.  His  sea  was  always  dependent 
for  effect  on  its  light  or  dark  relief  against  the  sky,  even  when 
it  possessed  color  ;  but  it  now  has  lost  all  local  color  and 


108    OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  MODERNS. 


transparency  together,  and  is  little  more  than  a  study  of 
chiaroscuro  in  an  exceedingly  ill-chosen  gray.  Besides,  the 
perpetual  repetition  of  the  same  idea  is  singularly  weakening 
to  the  mind.  Fielding,  in  ail  his  life,  can  only  be  considered 
as  having  produced  07ie  sea  picture.  The  others  are  dupli- 
cates. He  ought  to  go  to  some  sea  of  perfect  clearness  and 
brilliant  color,  as  that  on  the  coast  of  Cornwall,  or  of  the 
Gulf  of  Genoa,  and  study  it  sternly  in  broad  daylight,  with 
no  black  clouds  nor  drifting  rain  to  help  him  out  of  his  dif- 
ficulties. Pie  would  then  both  learn  his  strength  and  add  to  it. 

But  there  is  one  point  in  all  his  seas  deserving  especial 
praise — a  marked  aim  at  character,  lie  desires,  especially  in 
§  8.  Its  hi?h  aim  ^^^^  latter  works,  not  so  much  to  produce  an 
at  character.  agreeable  picture,  a  scientific  piece  of  arrange- 
ment, or  delightful  melody  of  color,  as  to  make  us  feel  the 
utter  desolation,  the  cold,  withering,  frozen  hopelessness  of 
the  continuous  storm  and  merciless  sea.  And  this  is  pecu- 
liarly remarkable  in  his  denying  himself  all  color,  just  in  the 
little  bits  which  an  artist  of  inferior  mind  would  paint  in 
sienna  and  cobalt.  If  a  piece  of  broken  wreck  is  allowed  to 
rise  for  an  instant  through  the  boiling  foam,  though  the  blue 
stripe  of  a  sailor's  jacket,  or  a  red  rag  of  a  flag  would  do  all 
our  hearts  good,  we  are  not  allowed  to  have  it ;  it  would 
make  us  too  comfortable,  and  prevent  us  from  shivering  and 
shrinking  as  we  look,  and  the  artist,  with  admirable  inten- 
tion, and  most  meritorious  self-denial,  expresses  his  piece 
J?  o  T>  ^  ^  «  .        of  wreck  with  a  dark,  cold  brown.    Now  we 

§  9.  But  deficiency  ' 

in  the   requisite  think  this  aim  and  effort  worthy  of  the  hioh- 

quality  of  grays.  .  i         •  i       "i  i 

est  praise,  and  we  only  wish  the  lesson  were 
taken  up  and  acted  on  by  our  other  artists  ;  but  Mr.  Field- 
ino^  should  remember  that  nothinor-  of  this  kind  can  be  done 
with  success  unless  by  the  most  studied  management  of  the 
general  tones  of  the  picture  ;  for  the  eye,  deprived  of  all 
means  of  enjoying  the  gray  hues,  merely  as  a  contrast  to 
bright  points,  becomes  painfully  fastidious  in  the  quality  of 
the  hues  themselves,  and  demands  for  its  satisfaction  such 
melodies  and  richness  of  gray  as  may  in  some  degree  atone 
to  it  for  the  loss  of  points  of  stimulus.    That  gray  which 


OF  WATER,  A8  PAINTED  BY  THE  M0DEBN8,  109 


would  be  taken  frankly  and  freely  for  an  expression  of 
gloom,  if  it  came  behind  a  yellow  sail  or  a  red  cap,  is  exam- 
ined with  invidious  and  merciless  intentness  when  there  is 
nothing  to  relieve  it,  and,  if  not  able  to  bear  the  investiga- 
tion, if  neither  agreeable  nor  variable  in  its  hue,  renders  the 
picture  weak  instead  of  impressive,  and  unpleasant  instead 
of  awful.  And  indeed  the  management  of  nat- 
thegrays^o?na?  ure  might  teach  him  this  ;  for  though,  when 
^^^*  using  violent  contrasts,  she  frequently  makes 

her  gloom  somewhat  monotonous,  the  moment  she  gives  up 
her  vivid  color,  and  depends  upon  her  desolation,  that  mo- 
ment she  begins  to  steal  the  greens  into  her  sea-gray,  and 
the  browns  and  yellows  into  her  cloud-gray,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  variously  tinted  light  through  all.  Nor  is  Mr.  Field- 
ing without  a  model  in  art,  for  the  Land's  End,  and  Lowe- 
stoffe,  and  Snowstorm,  (in  the  Academy,  1842,)  of  Turner, 
are  nothing  more  than  passages  of  the  most  hopeless,  des- 
olate, uncontrasted  grays,  and  yet  are  three  of  the  very 
finest  pieces  of  color  that  have  come  from  his  hand.  And 
we  sincerely  hope  that  Mr.  Fielding  will  gradually  feel  the 
necessity  of  such  studied  melodies  of  quiet  color,  and  will 
neither  fall  back  into  the  old  tricks  of  contrast,  nor  con- 
tinue to  paint  with  purple  and  ink.  If  he  will  only  make  a 
few  careful  studies  of  gray  from  the  mixed  atmosphere  of 
spray,  rain,  and  mist  of  a  gale  that  has  been  three  days  hard 
at  work,  not  of  a  rainy  squall,  but  of  a  persevering  and  pow- 
erful storm,  and  not  where  the  sea  is  turned  into  milk  and 
magnesia  by  a  chalk  coast,  but  where  it  breaks  pure  and 
green  on  gray  slate  or  white  granite,  as  along  the  cliffs  of 
Cornwall,  we  think  his  pictures  would  present  some  of  the 
finest  examples  of  high  intention  and  feeling  to  be  found  in 
modern  art. 

The  works  of  Stanfield  evidently,  and  at  all  times,  proceed 
from  the  hand  of  a  man  who  has  both  thorough  knowledsfe 
§11.  Works  of  of  his  subject,  and  thorough  acquaintance  with 
perFect^^^*  knowi-  meaus  and  principles  of  art.    We  never 

edge  and  power,  ^riticise  them,  because  we  feel,  the  moment  we 
look  carefully  at  the  drawing  of  any  single  wave,  that  the 


110    OF  WATERy  AS  PAINTED  BY  THE  M0DEBN8. 


knowledge  possessed  by  the  master  is  much  greater  than  our 
own,  and  therefore  believe  that  if  anything  offends  us  in  any 
part  of  the  work,  it  is  nearly  certain  to  be  our  fault,  and  not 
the  painter's.  The  local  color  of  Stanfield's  sea  is  singularly 
true  and  powerful,  and  entirely  independent  of  any  tricks  of 
chiaroscuro.  He  will  carry  a  mighty  wave  up  against  the 
sky,  and  make  its  whole  body  dark  and  substantial  against  the 
distant  light,  using  all  the  while  nothing  more  than  chaste 
and  unexaggerated  local  color  to  gain  the  relief.  His  sur- 
face is  at  once  lustrous,  transparent,  and  accurate  to  a  hair- 
breadth in  every  curve  ;  and  he  is  entirely  independent  of 
dark  skies,  deep  blues,  driving  spray,  or  any  other  means  of 
concealing  want  of  form,  or  atoning  for  it.  He  fears  no  dif- 
ficulty, desires  no  assistance,  takes  his  sea  in  open  daylight, 
under  general  sunshine,  and  paints  the  element  in  its  pure 
color  and  complete  forms.  But  we  wish  that  he  were  less 
powerful,  and  more  interestino: :  or  that  he  were 

§12.    But  want  ,     ,         -r-^.  t,  i     ti  n 

of  feeling.  Gen-  a  little  less  Diogcnes-likc,  and  did  not  scorn  all 
truth  ^presented  that  he  does  not  Want.  Now  that  he  has  shown 
by  modern  art.  what  he  Can  do  without  such  aids,  we  wish 
he  would  show  us  what  he  can  do  with  them.  He  is,  as  we 
have  already  said,  v^anting  in  what  we  have  just  been  prais- 
ing in  Fielding — impressiveness.  We  should  like  him  to  be 
less  clever,  and  more  affecting — less  wonderful,  and  more  ter- 
rible ;  and  as  the  very  first  step  toward  such  an  end,  to  learn 
how  to  conceal.  We  are,  however,  trenching  upon  matters 
with  which  we  have  at  present  nothing  to  do  ;  our  concern 
is  now  only  with  truth,  and  one  work  of  Stanfield  alone  pre- 
sents us  with  as  much  concentrated  knowledge  of  sea  and 
sky,  as,  diluted,  would  have  lasted  any  one  of  the  old  mas- 
ters his  life.  And  let  it  be  especially  observed,  how  exten- 
sive and  how  varied  is  the  truth  of  our  modern  masters — 
how  it  comprises  a  complete  history  of  that  nature  of  which, 
from  the  ancients,  you  only  here  and  there  can  catch  a  stam- 
mering descriptive  syllable — how  Fielding  has  given  us  every 
character  of  the  quiet  lake,  Robson  *  of  the  mountain  tarn, 

*  I  ought  before  to  have  alluded  to  the  works  of  the  late  G.  Robson. 
They  are  a  little  disaj^reeable  in  execution,  but  there  is  a  feeling  of  the 


OF  WATER,  AS  FAINTED  BY  TUENEB. 


Ill 


De  Wint  of  the  lowland  river,  Nesfield  of  the  radiant  cata- 
ract, Harding  of  the  roaring  torrent,  Fielding  of  the  desolate 
sea,  Stanfield  of  the  blue,  open,  boundless  ocean.  Arrange 
all  this  in  your  mind,  observe  the  perfect  truth  of  it  in  all  its 
parts,  compare  it  with  the  fragmentary  falsities  of  the  an- 
cients, and  then,  come  with  me  to  Turner. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF  WATEE,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 

I  BELIEVE  it  is  a  result  of  the  experience  of  all  artists,  that 
it  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  give  a  certain  degree  of 
depth  and  transparency  to  water  ;  but  that  it  is  next  thing 
to  impossible,  to  2:ive  a  full  impression  of  sur- 

§  1.  The  difficulty  ^  n     Z.-        u        '  *      1     U  ' 

of  giving  surface  lace.    It  no  reflection  be  given — a  ripple  being 

to  smooth  water.  t,i  ;       iitii       i      •/»  n 

supposed — the  water  looks  like  lead  :  it  reflec- 
tion be  given,  it  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  looks  morbidly  clear 
and  deep,  so  that  we  always  go  down  mto  it,  even  when  the 
artist  most  wishes  us  to  glide  over  it.  Now,  this  difficulty 
arises  from  the  very  same  circumstance  which  occasions  the 
frequent  failure  in  effect  of  the  best  drawn  foregrounds,  no- 
ticed in  Section  H.  Chapter  III.,  the  change,  namely,  of  focus 
§  2.  Is  dependent  necessary  in  the  eye  in  order  to  receive  rays  of 
of  the  ey^e,^*^and  light  coming  from  different  distances.  Go  to 
Jh^'Sh^ys  the  edge  of  a  pond,  in  a  perfectly  calm  day,  at 
are  perceived.  some  place  where  there  is  duckweed  floating  on 
the  surface, — not  thick,  but  a  leaf  here  and  there.  Now,  you 
may  either  see  in  the  water  the  reflection  of  the  sky,  or  you 
may  see  the  duckweed  ,  out  you  cannot,  by  any  effort,  see 
both  together.  If  you  look  for  the  reflection,  you  will  be 
sensible  of  a  sudden  change  or  effort  in  the  eye,  by  which  it 
adapts  itself  to  the  reception  of  the  rays  which  have  come  all 
the  way  from  the  clouds,  have  struck  on  the  water,  and  so 
been  sent  up  again  to  the  eye.    The  focus  you  adopt  is  one 

character  of  derj)  calm  water  in  them  quite  unequalled,  and  different 
from  the  works  and  thoughts  of  all  other  men. 


112         OF  WATER,  AS  FAINTED  BY  TURNER, 


fit  for  great  distance  ;  and,  accordingly,  you  will  feel  that 
you  are  looking  down  a  great  way  under  the  water,  while  the 
leaves  of  the  duckweed,  though  they  lie  upon  the  water  at 
the  very  spot  on  which  you  are  gazing  so  intently,  are  felt 
only  as  a  vague,  uncertain  interruption,  causing  a  little  con- 
fusion in  the  image  below,  but  entirely  indistinguishable  as 
leaves, — and  even  their  color  unknown  and  unperceived. 
Unless  you  think  of  them,  you  will  not  even  feel  that  any- 
thing interrupts  your  sight,  so  excessively  slight  is  their  effect. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  make  up  your  mind  to  look  for 
the  leaves  of  the  duckweed,  you  will  perceive  an  instanta- 
neous change  in  the  effort  of  the  eye,  by  which  it  becomes 
adapted  to  receive  near  rays — those  which  have  only  come 
from  the  surface  of  the  pond.  You  will  then  see  the  delicate 
leaves  of  the  duckweed  with  perfect  clearness,  and  in  vivid 
green  ;  but  while  you  do  so,  you  will  be  able  to  perceive 
nothing  of  the  reflections  in  the  very  water  on  which  they 
float — nothing  but  a  vague  flashing  and  melting  of  light  and 
dark  hues,  without  form  or  meaning,  which,  to  investigate, 
or  find  out  what  they  mean  or  are,  you  must  quit  your  hold 
of  the  duckweed,  and  plunge  down. 

Hence  it  appears,  that  whenever  we  see  plain  reflections  of 
comparatively  distant  objects,  in  near  water,  we  cannot  pos- 
sibly see  the  surface,  and  vice  versa ;  so  that  when  in  a 
paintincr  we  orive  the  reflections  with  the  same 

§3.  Morbid  clear-  ^  ^       •  ?      i  •  i    '  i  •  -i  i  • 

ness  occasioned  in  clcamess  With  which  they  ar6  visible  m  nature, 

painting  of  water  ,  .     £  4.11 

by  distinctness  of  we  presuppose  the  effort  oi  the  eye  to  look  un- 

reflections.  i      ^^  p  t      £  i     i  it 

der  the  suriace,  and,  oi  course,  destroy  the  sur- 
face, and  induce  an  effect  of  clearness  which,  perhaps,  the 
artist  has  not  particularly  wished  to  attain,  but  which  he  has 
found  himself  forced  into,  by  his  reflections,  in  spite  of  him- 
self. And  the  reason  of  this  effect  of  clearness  appearing  pre- 
ternatural is,  that  people  are  not  in  the  habit  of  looking  at 
water  with  the  distant  focus  adapted  to  the  reflections,  unless 
by  particular  effort.  We  invariably,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, use  the  surface  focus  ;  and,  in  consequence,  receive 
nothing  more  than  a  vague  and  confused  impression  of  the 
reflected  colors  and  lines,  however  clearly,  calmly,  and  vigor* 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUliNEB. 


113 


ously  all  may  be  defined  underneath,  if  we  choose  to  look  for 
them.  We  do  not  look  for  them,  bat  glide  along  over  the 
surface,  catching  only  playing  light  and  capricious  color  for 
evidence  of  reflection,  except  where  we  come  to  images  of 
objects  close  to  the  surface,  which  the  surface  focus  is  of 
course  adapted  to  receive  ;  and  these  we  see  clearly,  as  of  the 
weeds  on  the  shore,  or  of  sticks  rising  out  of  the  water,  etc. 
Hence,  the  ordinary  effect  of  water  is  only  to  be  rendered  by 
giving  the  reflections  of  the  margin  clear  and  distinct  (so 
clear  they  usually  are  in  nature,  that  it  is  impossible  to  tell 
where  the  water  begins  ;)  but  the  moment  we  touch  the  re- 
flection of  distant  objects,  as  of  high  trees  or  clouds,  that  in- 
stant we  must  become  vague  and  uncertain  in  drawing,  and, 
though  vivid  in  color  and  light  as  the  object  itself,  quite  in- 
M  How  avoided  ^istinct  in  form  and  feature.  If  we  take  such 
by  Turner.  ^  piece  of  Water  as  that  in  the  foreground  of 

Turner's  Chateau  of  Prince  Albert,  the  first  impression  from 
it  is, — "  What  a  wide  surface  !  "  We  glide  over  it  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  into  the  picture  before  w^e  know  where  we  are,  and 
yet  the  water  is  as  calm  and  crystalline  as  a  mirror  ;  but  we 
are  not  allowed  to  tumble  into  it,  and  gasp  for  breath  as  we 
go  down, — we  are  kept  upon  the  surface,  though  that  surface 
is  flashing  and  radiant  with  every  hue  of  cloud,  and  sun,  and 
sky,  and  foliage.  But  the  secret  is  in  the  drawing  of  these 
reflections.*  We  cannot  tell  when  we  look  at  them  and  for 
them,  what  they  mean.  They  have  all  character,  and  are  evi- 
dently reflections  of  something  definite  and  determined  ;  but 

*  Not  altogether.  I  believe  here,  as  in  a  former  case,  I  have  attributed 
far  too  much  influence  to  this  change  of  focus.  In  Turner's  earlier 
works  the  principle  is  not  found.  In  the  rivers  of  the  Yorkshire  draw 
ings,  every  reflection  is  given  clearly,  even  to  the  farthest  depth,  and 
yet  the  surface  is  not  lost,  and  it  would  deprive  the  painter  of  much 
power  if  he  were  not  sometimes  so  to  represent  them,  especially  when 
his  object  is  repose  ;  it  being,  of  course,  as  lawful  for  him  to  choose  one 
adaptation  of  the  sight  as  another.  I  have,  however,  left  the  above 
paragraphs  as  first  written,  because  they  are  tru'^,  although  I  think  they 
make  too  much  of  an  unimportant  matter.  The  reader  may  attribute 
to  them  such  weight  as  he  tliinks  fit.  He  is  referred  to  §  11  of  this 
chapter,  and  to  §  4  of  the  first  chapter  of  this  section. 
Vol.  II.— 8 


114         OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUBNEB. 


yet  they  are  all  uncertain  and  inexplicable  ;  playing  color  and 
palpitating  shade,  which,  though  we  recognize  in  an  instant 
for  images  of  something,  and  feel  that  the  water  is  bright, 
and  lovely,  and  calm,  we  cannot  penetrate  nor  interpret  :  we 
are  not  allowed  to  go  down  to  them,  and  we  repose,  as  we 
should  in  nature,  upon  the  lustre  of  the  level  surface.  It  is 
in  this  power  of  saying  everything,  and  yet  saying  nothing 
too  plainly,  that  the  perfection  of  art  here,  as  in  all  other 
cases,  consists.    But  as  it  was  before  shown  in 

§  5.  All  reflections    ^  . 

on  distant  water  oection  11.  Chap.  111.  that  the  focus  oi  the  eye 
are  is  inc  .  required  little  alteration  after  the  first  half  mile 
of  distance,  it  is  evident  that  on  the  distant  surface  of  water, 
all  reflections  will  be  seen  plainly  ;  for  the  same  focus  adapted 
to  a  moderate  distance  of  si!irface  will  receive  with  distinct- 
ness rays  coming  from  the  sky,  or  from  any  other  distance, 
however  great.  Thus  we  always  see  the  reflection  of  Mont 
Blanc  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  whether  we  take  pains  to  look 
for  it  or  not,  because  the  water  upon  which  it  is  cast  is  itself  a 
mile  off  ;  but  if  we  would  see  the  reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  in 
the  Lac  de  Chede,  which  is  close  to  us,  we  must  take  some 
trouble  about  the  matter,  leave  the  green  snakes  swimming 
upon  the  surface,  and  plunge  for  it.  Hence  reflections,  if 
viewed  collectively,  are  always  clear  in  proportion  to  the  dis- 
tance of  the  water  on  which  they  are  cast.  And  now  look  at 
Turner's  Ulleswater,  or  any  of  his  distant  lake  expanses,  and 
you  will  find  every  crag  and  line  of  the  hills  rendered  in  them 
with  absolute  fidelity,  while  the  near  surface  shows  nothing 
but  a  vague  confusion  of  exquisite  and  lustrous  tint.  The 
reflections  even  of  the  clouds  will  be  given  far  off,  while  those 
of  near  boats  and  figures  will  be  confused  and  mixed  among 
each  other,  except  just  at  the  water-line. 

And  now  we  see  what  Vandevelde  ought  to  have  done 
with  the  shadow  of  his  ship  spoken  of  in  the  first  chapter  of 
this  section.  In  such  a  calm,  we  should  in  nature,  if  we  had 
§  6.  The  error  of  looked  for  the  reflection,  have  seen  it  clear  from 
Vandevelde.  ^jj^  water-Hne  to  the  flag  on  the  mainmast  ;  but 
in  so  doing,  we  should  have  appeared  to  ourselves  to  be 
looking  under  the  water,  and  should  have  lost  all  feeling  of 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER,  115 


surface.  When  we  looked  at  the  surface  of  the  sea, — as  we 
naturally  should, — we  should  have  seen  the  image  of  the  hull 
absolutely  clear  and  perfect,  because  that  image  is  cast  on 
distant  water  ;  but  we  should  have  seen  the  image  of  the 
masts  and  sails  gradually  more  confused  as  they  descended, 
and  the  water  close  to  us  would  have  borne  only  upon  its 
surface  a  maze  of  flashing  color  and  indefinite  hue.  Had 
Vandevelde,  therefore,  given  the  perfect  image  of  his  ship, 
he  would  have  represented  a  truth  dependent  on  a  particular 
effort  of  the  eye,  and  destroyed  his  surface.  But  his  busi- 
ness was  to  give,  not  a  distinct  reflection,  but  the  colors  of 
the  reflection  in  mystery  and  disorder  upon  his  near  water, 
all  perfectly  vivid,  but  none  intelligible  ;  and  had  he  done  so, 
the  eye  would  not  have  troubled  itself  to  search  them  out  ; 
it  would  not  have  cared  whence  or  how  the  colors  came,  but 
it  would  have  felt  them  to  be  true  and  right,  and  rested  sat- 
isfied upon  the  polished  surface  of  the  clear  sea.  Of  the  per- 
fect truth,  the  best  examples  I  can  give  are  Turner's  Saltash 
and  Castle  Upnor. 

Be  it  next  observed  that  the  reflection  of  all  near  objects 
is,  by  our  fifth  rule,  not  an  exact  copy  of  the  parts  of  them 
which  we  see  above  the  water,  but  a  totally  different  view 
§7.  Difference  in  and  arrangement  of  them,  that  which  we  should 
parta^^Xtwee^n  Were  lookiug  at  them  from  beneath, 

ject^and^ita  im-  Hcnce  we  sce  the  dark  sides  of  leaves  hanging 
over  a  stream,  in  their  reflection,  though  we  see 
the  light  sides  above,  and  all  objects  and  groups  of  objects 
are  thus  seen  in  the  reflection  under  different  lights,  and  in 
different  positions  with  respect  to  each  other  from  those 
which  they  assume  above  ;  some  which  we  see  on  the  bank 
being  entirely  lost  in  their  reflection,  and  others  which  we 
cannot  see  on  the  bank  brought  into  view.  Hence  nature 
contrives  never  to  repeat  herself,  and  the  surface  of  water  is 
not  a  mockery,  but  a  new  view  of  what  is  above  it.  And 
this  difference  in  what  is  represented,  as  well  as  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  representation,  is  one  of  the  chief  sources  by 
which  the  sensation  of  surface  is  kept  up  in  the  reality.  The 
reflection  is  not  so  remarkable,  it  does  not  attract  the  eye  in 


116         OF  WATER,  AB  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


the  same  degree  when  it  is  entirely  different  from  the  images 
above,  as  when  it  mocks  them  and  repeats  them,  and  we  feel 
that  the  space  and  surface  have  color  and  character  of  their 
own,  and  that  the  bank  is  one  thing  and  the  water  another. 
It  is  by  not  making  this  change  manifest,  and  giving  under- 
neath a  mere  duplicate  of  what  is  seen  above,  that  artists  are 
apt  to  destroy  the  essence  and  substance  of  water,  and  to 
drop  us  through  it. 

Now  one  instance  will  be  sufficient  to  show  the  exquisite 
care  of  Turner  in  this  respect.    On  the  left-hand  side  of  his 
Nottingham,  the  water  (a  smooth  canal)  is  terminated  by  a 
bank  fenced  up  with  wood,  on  which,  lust  at 

§  8.    Illustrated  «    ,  I  ,  .  . 

from  the  works  the  edge  of  the  water,  stands  a  white  sign-post. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  back,  the  hill  on  which  Not- 
tingham Castle  stands  rises  steeply  nearly  to  the  top  of  the 
picture.  The  upper  part  of  this  hill  is  in  bright  golden  light, 
and  the  lower  in  very  deep  gray  shadow,  against  which  the 
white  board  of  the  sign-post  is  seen  entirely  in  light  relief, 
though,  being  turned  from  the  light,  it  is  itself  in  delicate 
middle  tint,  illumined  only  on  the  edge.  But  the  image  of 
all  this  in  the  canal  is  very  different.  First,  we  have  the  re- 
flection of  the  piles  of  the  bank,  sharp  and  clear,  but  under 
this  we  have  not  what  we  see  above  it,  the  dark  base  of  the 
hill,  (for  this  being  a  quarter  of  a  mile  back,  we  could  not 
see  over  the  fence  if  we  were  looking  from  below,)  but  the 
golden  summit  of  the  hill,  the  shadow  of  the  under  part  hav- 
ing no  record  nor  place  in  the  reflection.  But  this  summit, 
being  very  distant,  cannot  be  seen  clearly  by  the  eye  while 
its  focus  is  adapted  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  accord- 
ingly its  reflection  is  entirely  vague  and  confused  ;  you  can- 
not tell  what  it  is  meant  for,  it  is  mere  playing  golden  light. 
But  the  sign-post,  being  on  the  bank  close  to  us,  will  be  re- 
flected clearly,  and  accordingly  its  distinct  image  is  seen  in 
the  midst  of  this  confusion.  But  it  now  is  relieved,  not 
against  the  dark  base,  but  against  the  illumined  summit  of 
the  hill,  and  it  appears,  therefore,  instead  of  a  white  space 
thrown  out  from  blue  shade,  a  dark  gray  space  thrown  out 
from  golden  light.    I  do  not  know  that  any  more  magnificent 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUItNEB. 


example  could  be  given  of  concentrated  knowledge,  or  of  the 
daring  statement  of  most  difficult  truth.    For  who  but  this 

consummate  artist  would  have  had  courage,  even 
less  Inl  judg-  if  he  had  perceived  the  laws  which  required  it, 
Se^*  obsSvance  to  Undertake  in  a  single  small  space  of  water, 

the  painting  of  an  entirely  new  picture,  with  all 
its  tones  and  arrangements  altered, — what  was  made  above 
bright  by  opposition  to  blue,  being  underneath  made  cool 
and  dark  by  opposition  to  gold  ; — or  would  have  dared  to 
contradict  so  boldly  the  ordinary  expectation  of  the  unculti- 
vated eye,  to  find  in  the  reflection  a  mockery  for  the  reality  ? 
But  the  reward  is  immediate,  for  not  only  is  the  change  most 
grateful  to  the  eye,  and  most  exquisite  as  composition,  but 
the  surface  of  the  water  in  consequence  of  it  is  felt  to  be  as 
spacious  as  it  is  clear,  and  the  eye  rests  not  on  the  inverted 
image  of  the  material  objects,  but  on  the  element  which  re- 
ceives them.  And  we  have  a  further  instance  in  this  passage 
of  the  close  study  which  is  required  to  enjoy  the  works  of 
Turner,  for  another  artist  might  have  altered  the  reflection 
or  confused  it,  but  he  would  not  have  reasoned  upon  it  so  as 
to  find  out  what  the  exact  alteration  must  be  ;  and  if  we  had 
tried  to  account  for  the  reflection,  we  should  have  found  it 
false  or  inaccurate.  But  the  master  mind  of  Turner,  with- 
out effort,  showers  its  knowledge  into  every  touch,  and  we 
have  only  to  trace  out  even  his  slightest  passages,  part  by 
part,  to  find  in  them  the  universal  working  of  the  deepest 
thought,  that  consistency  of  every  minor  truth  which  admits 
of  and  invites  the  same  ceaseless  study  as  the  work  of  nature 
herself. 

There  is,  however,  yet  another  peculiarity  in  Turner's 
painting  of  smooth  water,  which,  though  less  deserving  of 
admiration,  as  being  merely  a  mechanical  excellence,  is  not 
§  10.  The  tex-  ^^^^  wonderful  than  its  other  qualities,  nor  less 
in'\  u*r  n^e^r'^s  ^^^^4^^ — ^  peculiar  texture,  namely,  given  to  the 
painting  of  cairn  most  delicate  tints  of  the  surface,  when  there  is 

water.  t     i  *       n       •  • 

little  reflection  from  anything  except  sky  or  at- 
mosphere, and  which,  just  at  the  points  where  other  paint- 
ers are  reduced  to  paper,  gives  to  the  surface  of  Turner  the 


118         OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


greatest  appearance  of  substantial  liquidity.  It  is  impossi* 
ble  to  say  how  it  is  produced  ;  it  looks  like  some  modifica- 
tion of  body  color  ;  but  it  certainly  is  not  body  color  used  as 
by  other  men,  for  I  have  seen  this  expedient  tried  over  and 
over  again  without  success  ;  and  it  is  often  accompanied  by 
crumbling  touches  of  a  dry  brush,  which  never  could  have 
been  put  upon  body  color,  and  which  could  not  have  shown 
through  underneath  it.  As  a  piece  of  mechanical  excel- 
lence, it  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  things  in  the  works  of 
the  master  ;  and  it  brings  the  truth  of  his  water-painting  up 
to  the  last  degree  of  perfection,  often  rendering  those  pas- 
sages of  it  the  most  attractive  and  delightful,  which  from 
their  delicacy  and  paleness  of  tint,  would  have  been  weak 
and  papery  in  the  hands  of  any  other  man.  The  best  in- 
stance of  it  I  can  give,  is,  I  think,  the  distance  of  the  Dev- 
onport  with  the  Dockyards. 

After  all,  however,  there  is  more  in  Turner's  painting  of 
water  surface  than  any  philosophy  of  reflection,  or  any  pecu- 
liarity of  means,  can  account  for  or  accomplish  ;  there  is  a 
§  11  Its  united  rfiiglit  and  wonder  about  it  which  will  not  admit 
qualities.  ^J^ys  or  hows.    Take,  for  instance,  the 

picture  of  the  Sun  of  Venice  going  to  Sea,  of  1843,  respect- 
ing which,  however,  there  are  one  or  two  circumstances  which 
may  as  well  be  noted  besides  its  water-painting.  The  reader, 
if  he  has  not  been  at  Venice,  ought  to  be  made  aware  that 
the  Venetian  fishing-boats,  almost  without  exception,  carry 
canvas  painted  with  bright  colors,  the  favorite  design  for  the 
centre  being  either  a  cross  or  a  large  sun  with  many  rays, 
the  favorite  colors  being  red,  orange,  and  black,  blue  occur- 
ring occasionally.  The  radiance  of  these  sails  and  of  the 
bright  and  grotesque  vanes  at  the  mast-heads  under  sunlight 
is  beyond  all  painting,  but  it  is  strange  that,  of  constant  oc- 
currence as  these  boats  are  on  all  the  lagoons.  Turner  alone 
should  have  availed  himself  of  them.  Nothing  could  be 
more  faithful  than  the  boat  which  was  the  principal  object  in 
this  picture,  in  the  cut  of  the  sail,  the  filling  of  it,  the  exact 
height  of  the  boom  above  the  deck,  the  quartering  of  it  with 
color,  finally  and  especially,  the  hanging  of  the  fish-baskets 


OF  WATER,  AB  FAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


119 


about  the  bows.  All  these,  however,  are  comparatively  minor 
merits,  (though  not  the  blaze  of  color  which  the  artist  eli- 
cited from  the  right  use  of  these  circumstances,)  but  the  pe- 
culiar power  of  the  picture  was  the  painting  of  the  sea  sur- 
face, where  there  were  no  reflections  to  assist  it.  A  stream  of 
splendid  color  fell  from  the  boat,  but  that  occupied  the  centre 
only;  in  the  distance,  the  city  and  crowded  boats  threw 
down  some  playing  lines,  but  these  still  left  on  each  side  of 
the  boat  a  large  space  of  water  reflecting  nothing  but  the 
morning  sky.  This  was  divided  by  an  eddying  swell,  on 
whose  continuous  sides  the  local  color  of  the  water  was  seen, 
pure  aquamarine,  (a  beautiful  occurrence  of  closely-observed 
truth,)  but  still  there  remained  a  large  blank  space  of  pale 
water  to  be  treated,  the  sky  above  had  no  distinct  details  and 
was  pure  faint  gray,  with  broken  white  vestiges  of  cloud  :  it 
gave  no  help  therefore.  But  there  the  water  lay,  no  dead 
gray  flat  paint,  but  downright  clear,  playing,  palpable  sur- 
face, full  of  indefinite  hue,  and  retiring  as  regularly  and  visi- 
bly back  and  far  away,  as  if  there  had  been  objects  all  over 
it  to  tell  the  story  by  perspective.  Now  it  is  the  doing  of 
this  which  tries  the  painter,  and  it  is  his  having  done  this 
which  made  me  say  above  that  no  man  had  ever  painted 
the  surface  of  calm  water  but  Turner."  The  San  Benedetto, 
looking  towards  Fusina,  contained  a  similar  passage,  equally 
fine  ;  in  one  of  the  Canale  della  Guidecca  the  specific  green 
color  of  the  water  is  seen  in  front,  with  the  shadows  of  the 
boats  thrown  on  it  in  purple  ;  all,  as  it  retires,  passing  into 
the  pure  reflective  blue. 

But  Turner  is  not  satisfied  with  this.  He  is  never  alto- 
gether content  unless  he  can,  at  the  same  time  that  he  takes 
advantage  of  all  the  placidity  of  repose,  tell  us  something 
§  12  Relation  of  ^^^^^^  about  the  past  commotion  of  the  water, 
various  circum-  or  of  some  present  stirring:  of  tide  or  current 

stances  of    past       ,  .  ,     .  , 

agitation,  e  t  c . ,  which  its  stillness  docs  not  show,  or  give  us 

by  the  most  trif-  ,  .  ,  i  •   i       i  -T 

ling  incidents,  as  Something  or  other  to  think  about  and  reason 
intheCowes.  ^pon,  as  Well  as  to  look  at.  Take  a  few  in- 
stances. His  Cowes,  Isle  of  Wight,  is  a  summer  twilight 
about  half  an  hour,  or  more,  after  sunset.    Intensity  of  re- 


120         OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUBNER. 


pose  is  the  great  aim  throughout,  and  the  unity  of  tone  of 
the  picture  is  one  of  the  finest  things  that  Turner  has  ever 
done.  But  there  is  not  only  quietness,  there  is  the  very 
deepest  solemnity  in  the  whole  of  the  light,  as  well  as  in  the 
stillness  of  the  vessels  ;  and  Turner  wishes  to  enhance  this 
feeling  by  representing  not  only  repose,  but  power  in  repose, 
the  emblem,  in  the  sea,  of  the  quiet  ships  of  war.  Accord- 
ingly, he  takes  the  greatest  possible  pains  to  get  his  surface 
polished,  calm,  and  smooth,  but  he  indicates  the  reflection  of 
a  buoy,  floating  a  full  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  by  three  black 
strokes  with  wide  intervals  between  them,  the  last  of  which 
touches  the  water  within  twenty  yards  of  the  spectator. 
Now  these  three  reflections  can  only  indicate  the  farther 
sides  of  three  rises  of  an  enormous  swell,  and  give  by  their 
intervals  of  separation,  a  space  of  from  twelve  to  twenty 
yards  for  the  breadth  of  each  wave,  including  the  sweep  be- 
tween them,  and  this  swell  is  farther  indicated  by  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  new  moon  falling,  in  a  wide  zigzag  line.  The 
exceeding  majesty  which  this  single  circumstance  gives  to  the 
whole  picture,  the  sublime  sensation  of  power  and  knowl- 
edge of  former  exertion  which  we  instantly  receive  from  it, 
if  we  have  but  acquaintance  with  nature  enough  to  under- 
stand its  language,  render  this  work  not  only  a  piece  of  the 
most  refined  truth,  (as  which  I  have  at  present  named  it,)  but 
to  my  mind,  one  of  the  highest  pieces  of  intellectual  art  ex- 
isting. 

Again,  in  the  scene  on  the  Loire,  with  the  square  precipice 
and  fiery  sunset,  in  the  Rivers  of  France,  repose  has  been 
aimed  at  in  the  same  way,  and  most  thoroughly  given  ;  but 
^  the  immense  width  of  the  river  at  this  spot 

§13.  In  scenes  on  ^  ^  . 

the  Loire  and  makes  it  look  like  a  lake  or  sea,  and  it  was 
therefore  necessary  that  we  should  be  made 
thoroughly  to  understand  and  feel  that  this  is  not  the  calm 
of  still  water,  but  the  tranquillity  of  a  majestic  current. 
Accordingly,  a  boat  swings  at  anchor  on  the  right  ;  and  the 
stream,  dividing  at  its  bow,  flows  towards  us  in  two  long, 
dark  waves,  especial  attention  to  which  is  enforced  by  the 
one  on  the  left  being  brought  across  the  reflected  stream  of 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUBNER.  121 


sunshine,  which  it  separates,  and  which  is  broken  in  the 
nearer  water  by  the  general  undulation  and  agitation  caused 
by  the  boat's  wake  ;  a  wake  caused  by  the  waters  passing  it, 
not  by  its  going  through  the  water. 

Ao-ain,  in  the  Confluence  of  the  Seine  and  Marne,  we  have 
the  repose  of  the  wide  river  stirred  by  the  paddles  of  the 
steamboat,  (whose  plashing  we  can  almost  hear,  for  we  are 
§  14.  Expression  especially  compelled  to  look  at  them  by  their 
caused^'^bi^  TecoU  being  made  the  central  note  of  the  composi- 
from  shore.  .^ion — the  blackest  object  in  it,  opposed  to  the 

strongest  light,)  and  this  disturbance  is  not  merely  caused 
by  the  two  lines  of  surge  from  the  boat's  wake,  for  any 
other  painter  must  have  given  these,  but  Turner  never  rests 
satisfied  till  he  has  told  you  all  in  his  power  ;  and  he  has  not 
only  given  the  receding  surges,  but  these  have  gone  on  to 
the  shore,  have  struck  upon  it,  and  been  beaten  back  from 
it  in  another  line  of  weaker  contrary  surges,  whose  point 
of  intersection  with  those  of  the  wake  itself  is  marked  by 
the  sudden  subdivision  and  disorder  of  the  waves  of  the 
wake  on  the  extreme  left,  and  whose  reverted  direction  is 
exquisitely  given  where  their  lines  cross  the  calm  water, 
close  to  the  spectator,  and  marked  also  by  the  sudden 
vertical  spring  of  the  spray  just  where  they  intersect  the 
swell  from  the  boat  ;  and  in  order  that  we  may  fully  be  able 
to  account  for  these  reverted  waves,  we  are  allowed,  just  at 
the  extreme  right-hand  limit  of  the  picture,  to  see  the  point 
where  the  swell  from  the  boat  meets  the  shore.  In  the 
Chaise  de  Gargantua  we  have  the  still  water  lulled  by  the 
dead  calm  which  usually  precedes  the  most  violent  storms, 
suddenly  broken  upon  by  a  tremendotis  burst  of  wind  from 
the  gathered  thunder-clouds,  scattering  the  boats,  and  raising 
§  15.  Various  the  water  into  rage,  except  where  it  is  sheltered 
other  instances.  ^j^^  ^iiW^^  In  the  Jumicges  and  Vernon  we 
have  farther  instances  of  local  agitation,  caused,  in  the  one 
instance,  by  a  steamer,  in  the  other,  by  the  large  water- 
wheels  under  the  bridge,  not,  observe,  a  mere  splashing 
about  the  wheel  itself,  this  is  too  far  off  to  be  noticeable,  so 
that  we  should  not  have  even  known  that  the  objects  be- 


122         OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNEB, 


neath  the  bridge  were  water-wheels,  but  for  the  agitation  re- 
corded a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  river,  where  its  current 
crosses  the  sunlight.  And  thus  there  will  scarcely  ever  be 
found  a  piece  of  quiet  water  by  Turner,  without  some  story 
in  it  of  one  kind  or  another  ;  sometimes  a  slight,  but  beauti- 
ful incident — oftener,  as  in  the  Oowes,  something  on  which 
the  whole  sentiment  and  intention  of  the  picture  in  a  great 
degree  depends  ;  but  invariably  presenting  some  new  in- 
stance of  varied  knowledge  and  observation,  some  fresh  ap- 
peal to  the  highest  faculties  of  the  mind. 

Of  extended  surfaces  of  water,  as  rendered  by  Turner,  the 
Loch  Katrine  and  Derwent-water,  of  the  Illustrations  to  Scott, 
and  the  Loch  Lomond,  vignette  in  Rogers's  Poems,  are  char- 
§  16.  Turner's  actcristic  instances.  The  first  of  these  gives  us 
tant^expansesof  most  distant  part  of  the  lake  entirely  under 
Srrupted^^^'rip-  influence  of  a  light  breeze,  and  therefore 
pi^-  entirely  without  reflections  of  the  objects  on  its 

borders  ;  but  the  whole  near  half  is  untouched  by  the  wind, 
and  on  that  is  cast  the  image  of  the  upper  part  of  Ben-Venue 
and  of  the  islands.  The  second  gives  ns  the  surface,  with 
just  so  much  motion  upon  it  as  to  prolong,  but  not  to  destroy, 
the  reflections  of  the  dark  woods, — reflections  only  inter- 
rupted by  the  ripple  of  the  boat's  wake.  And 

§17.  And  ripple,  , ,  •    /    •  1        «  ^,         ,  , 

crossed  by  sun-  the  third  givcs  US  an  example  oi  the  whole  sur- 
face  so  much  affected  by  ripple  as  to  bring  into 
exercise  all  those  laws  which  we  have  seen  so  grossly  vio- 
lated by  Canaletto.  We  see  in  the  nearest  boat  that  though 
the  lines  of  the  gunwale  are  much  blacker  and  more  con- 
spicuous than  that  of  the  cutwater,  yet  the  gunwale  lines, 
being  nearly  horizontal,  have  no  reflection  whatsoever  ;  while 
the  line  of  the  cutwater,  being  vertical,  has  a  distinct  reflec- 
tion of  three  times  its  own  length.  But  even  these  tremu- 
lous reflections  are  only  visible  as  far  as  the  islands  ;  beyond 
them,  as  the  lake  retires  into  distance,  we  find  it  receives 
only  the  reflection  of  the  gray  light  from  the  clouds,  and 
runs  in  one  flat  white  field  up  between  the  hills  ;  and  besides 
all  this,  we  have  another  phenomenon,  quite  new,  given  to  us, 
« — the  brilliant  ^leam  of  lio-ht  alonor  the  centre  of  the  lake. 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


123 


This  is  not  caused  by  ripple,  for  it  is  cast  on  a  surface  rip- 
pled all  over  ;  but  it  is  what  we  could  not  have  without  rip- 
ple,— the  light  of  a  passage  of  sunshine.  I  have  already 
(Chap.  I.,  §  9)  explained  the  cause  of  this  phenomenon,  which 
never  can  by  any  possibility  take  place  on  calm  water,  being 
the  multitudinous  reflection  of  the  sun  from  the  sides  of  the 
ripples,  causing  an  appearance  of  local  light  and  shadow  ; 
and  being  dependent,  like  real  light  and  shadow,  on  the  pas- 
sage of  the  clouds,  though  the  dark  parts  of  the  water  are  the 
reflections  of  the  clouds,  not  the  shadows  of  them  ;  and  the 
bright  parts  are  the  reflections  of  the  sun,  and  not  the  light 
of  it.  This  little  vignette,  then,  will  entirely  complete  the 
system  of  Turner's  universal  truth  in  quiet  water.  We  have 
seen  every  phenomenon  given  by  him, — the  clear  reflection, 
the  prolonged  reflection,  the  reflection  broken  by  ripple,  and 
finally  the  ripple  broken  by  light  and  shade  ;  and  it  is  espe- 
cially to  be  observed  how  careful *he  is,  in  this  last  case,  when 
he  uses  the  apparent  light  and  shade,  to  account  for  it  by 
showing  us  in  the  whiteness  of  the  lake  beyond,  its  univer- 
sal subjection  to  ripple. 

We  have  not  spoken  of  Turner's  magnificent  drawing  of 
distant  rivers,  which,  however,  is  dependent  only  on  more 
complicated  application  of  the  same  laws,  with  exquisite  per- 
§18  His  draw-  spectivG.  The  swccps  of  river  in  theDryburgh, 
i  n  g  of  distant  (Illustrations  to  Scott.)  and  Melrose,  are  bold  and 

rivers.  .  . 

characteristic  examples,  as  well  as  the  Rouen 
from  St.  Catherine's  Hill,  and  the  Caudebec,  in  the  Rivers  of 
France.  The  only  thing  which  in  these  works  requires  par- 
ticular attention,  is  the  care  with  which  the  height  of  the 
observer  above  the  river  is  indicated  by  the  loss  of  the  reflec- 
tions of  its  banks.  This  is,  perhaps,  shown  most  clearly  in 
the  Caudebec.  If  we  had  been  on  a  level  with  the  river,  its 
whole  surface  would  have  been  darkened  b}^  the  reflection  of 
the  steep  and  high  banks  ;  but  being  far  above  it,  we  can  see 
no  more  of  the  image  than  we  could  of  the  hill  itself,  if  it 
were  actually  reversed  under  the  water  ;  and  therefore  we 
see  that  Turner  gives  us  only  a  narrow  line  of  dark  water, 
immediately  under  the  precipice,  the  broad  surface  reflecting 


324:         OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


only  the  sky.  This  is  also  finely  shown  on  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  Dry  burgh. 

But  all  these  early  works  of  the  artist  have  been  eclipsed 
by  some  recent  drawings  of  Switzerland.  These  latter  are 
not  to  be  described  by  any  words^  but  they  must  be  noted 
o.n  »  ^  *       here  not  only  as  presentinor  records  of  lake  ef- 

§  19.  And  of  sur-  j         r  » 

face   associated  feet  on  fiTrander  scale,  and  of  more  imaorinative 

with  mist.  ^  '  ^ 

character  than  any  other  of  his  works,  but  as 
combining  effects  of  the  surface  of  mist  with  the  surface  of 
water.  Two  or  three  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  seen  from 
above,  give  the  melting  of  the  mountain  promontories  be- 
aeath  into  the  clear  depth,  and  above  into  the  clouds  ;  one  of 
Constance  shows  the  vast  lake  at  evening,  seen  not  as  water, 
but  its  surface  covered  with  low  white  mist,  lying  league  be- 
yond league  in  the  twilight  like  a  fallen  space  of  moony 
cloud ;  one  of  Goldau  shows  the  Lake  of  Zug  appearing 
through  the  chasm  of  a  thunder-cloud  under  sunset,  its  whole 
surface  one  blaze  of  fire,  and  the  promontories  of  the  hills 
thrown  out  against  it,  like  spectres  ;  another  of  Zurich  gives 
the  playing  of  the  green  waves  of  the  river  among  white 
streams  of  moonlight  :  two  purple  sunsets  on  the  Lake  of 
Zug  are  distinguished  for  the  glow  obtained  without  positive 
color,  the  rose  and  purple  tints  being  in  great  measure  brought 
by  opposition  out  of  browns  :  finally,  a  drawing  executed  in 
1845  of  the  town  of  Lucerne  from  the  lake  is  unique  for  its 
expression  of  water  surface  reflecting  the  clear  green  hue  of 
sky  at  twilight. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  it  was  said  above,  that  Turner 
was  the  only  painter  who  had  ever  represented  the  surface  of 
calm  or  t\\Q force  of  agitated  water.    He  obtains  this  expres- 
sion of  force  in  falling  or  runnine^  water  by  fear- 

§  20,    His  draw-  .  ^  .       „    ^  xx 

ing  of  falling  less  and  full  rendering  of  its  forms.    He  never 

water,  with  pe-    ,  ,.  •  i 

cuiiar  expression  loscs  himselt  and  his  subject  in  the  splash  or  the 
of  weight.  ^^11 — 1^.^  presence  of  mind  never  fails  as  he  goes 
down  ;  he  does  not  blind  us  with  the  spray,  or  veil  the  coun- 
tenance of  his  fall  with  its  own  drapery.  A  little  crumbling 
white,  or  lightly  rubbed  paper,  will  soon  give  the  effect  of 
indiscriminate  foam  ;  but  nature  gives  more  than  foam — she 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER, 


125 


shows  beneath  it,  and  through  it,  a  peculiar  character  of  ex* 
quisitely  studied  form  bestowed  on  every  wave  and  line  of 
fall  ;  and  it  is  this  variety  of  definite  character  which  Turner 
always  aims  at  rejecting,  as  much  as  possible,  everything  that 
conceals  or  overwhelms  it.  Thus,  in  the  Upper  Fall  of  the 
Tees,  though  the  whole  basin  of  the  fall  is  blue  and  dim  with 
the  rising  vapor,  yet  the  whole  attention  of  the  spectator  is 
directed  to  that  which  it  was  peculiarly  difficult  to  render,  the 
concentric  zones  and  delicate  curves  of  the  falling  water  it- 
self ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  express  with  what  exquisite  ac- 
curacy these  are  given.  They  are  the  characteristic  of  a 
powerful  stream  descending  without  impediment  or  break, 
but  from  a  narrow  channel,  so  as  to  expand  as  it  falls.  They 
are  the  constant  form  which  such  a  stream  assumes  as  it  de- 
scends ;  and  yet  I  think  it  would  be  difficult  to  point  to  an- 
other instance  of  their  being  rendered  in  art.  You  will  find 
nothing  in  the  waterfalls  even  of  our  best  painters,  but 
springing  lines  of  parabolic  descent,  and  splashing,  shapeless 
foam  ;  and,  in  consequence,  though  they  make  you  under- 
stand the  swiftness  of  the  water,  they  never  let  you  feel  the 
weight  of  it  ;  the  stream  in  their  hands  looks  active,  not  sit- 
§  21   Theaban  leaped,  not  as  if  it  fell.    Now  water 

donment   and  will  leap  a  little  wav,  it  will  leap  down  a  weir  or 

plunge  of  great  ^  .  ^        ^  -    ^    n  ^^  ^'^ 

cataracts.  How  ovcr  a  stonc,  Dut  it  tumoles  over  a  high  fall  like 
given  by  him.      ^^.^  ^  when  wc  havc  lost  the  parabolic 

line,  and  arrived  at  the  catenary, — when  he  have  lost  the 
spring  of  the  fall,  and  arrived  at  the  plunge  of  it,  that  we 
begin  really  to  feel  its  weight  and  wildness.  Where  water 
takes  its  first  leap  from  the  top,  it  is  cool,  and  collected,  and 
uninteresting,  and  mathematical,  but  it  is  when  it  finds  that 
it  has  got  into  a  scrape,  and  has  farther  to  go  than  it  thought 
for,  that  its  character  comes  out  ;  it  is  then  that  it  begins  to 
writhe,  and  twist,  and  sweep  out  zone  after  zone  in  wilder 
stretching  as  it  falls,  and  to  send  down  the  rocket-like,  lance- 
pointed,  whizzing  shafts  at  its  sides,  sounding  for  the  bottom. 
And  it  is  this  prostration,  this  hopeless  abandonment  of  its 
ponderous  power  to  the  air,  \Vhich  is  always  peculiarly  ex- 
pressed by  Turner,  and  especially  in  the  case  before  us  ;  while 


126 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


our  other  artists,  keeping  to  the  parabolic  line,  where  they  do 
not  lose  themselves  in  smoke  and  foam,  make  their  cataract 
look  muscular  and  wiry,  and  may  consider  themselves  fort- 
unate if  they  can  keep  it  from  stopping.  I  believe  the  maj- 
esty of  motion  which  Turner  has  given  by  these  concentric 
catenary  lines  must  be  felt  even  by  those  who  have  never 
seen  a  high  waterfall,  and  therefore  cannot  appreciate  their 
exquisite  fidelity  to  nature. 

In  the  Chain  Bridge  over  the  Tees,  this  passiveness  and 
swinging  of  the  water  to  and  fro  are  yet  more  remarkable  ; 
while  we  have  another  characteristic  of  a  great  waterfall  given 
to  us,  that  the  wind,  in  this  instance  coming  up  the  valley 
against  the  current,  takes  the  spray  up  off  the  edges,  and  car- 
ries it  back  in  little  torn,  reverted  rags  and  threads,  seen  in 
delicate  form  against  the  darkness  on  the  left.  But  we  must 
understand  a  little  more  about  the  nature  of  running  water 
before  we  can  appreciate  the  drawing  either  of  this,  or  any 
other  of  Turner's  torrents. 

When  water,  not  in  very  great  body,  runs  in  a  rocky  bed 
much  interrupted  by  hollows,  so  that  it  can  rest  every  now 
and  then  in  a  pool  as  it  goes  along,  it  does  not  acquire  a  con- 
§22.  Difference  in  tinuous  Velocity  of  motiou.  It  pauses  after  ev- 
ter,  vThen^continu-  ^^J  leap,  and  curdles  about,  and  rests  a  little, 
terri^^ted^i^Thl  in-  ^^^^       again  ;  and  if  in  this  compar- 

terrupted  stream  ativclv  tranquil  and  rational  state  of  mind  it 

fills  the  hollows  of  *^     ^  ^ 

its  bed.  meets  with  an  obstacle,  as  a  rock  or  stone,  it 

parts  on  each  side  of  it  with  a  little  bubbling  foam,  and  goes 
round  ;  if  it  comes  to  a  step  in  its  bed,  it  leaps  it  lightly,  and 
then  after  a  little  plashing  at  the  bottom,  stops  again  to  take 
breath.  But  if  its  bed  be  on  a  continuous  slope,  not  much 
interrupted  by  hollows,  so  that  it  cannot  rest,  or  if  its  own 
mass  be  so  increased  by  flood  that  its  usual  resting-places  are 
not  sufficient  for  it,  but  that  it  is  perpetually  pushed  out  of 
them  by  the  following  current,  before  it  has  had  time  to  tran- 
quillize itself,  it  of  course  gains  velocity  with  every  yard  that 
it  runs  ;  the  impetus  got  at  one  leap  is  carried  to  the  credit 
of  the  next,  until  the  whole  stream  becomes  one  mass  of  un- 
checked, accelerating  motion.    Now  when  water  in  this  state 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BT  TURNER. 


127 


comes  to  an  obstacle,  it  does  not  part  at  it,  but  clears  it,  like 
a  race-horse  ;  and  when  it  comes  to  a  hollow,  it  does  not  fill 
it  up  and  run  out  leisurely  at  the  other  side,  but  it  rushes 
down  into  it  and  comes  up  again  on  the  other  side,  as  a  ship 
into  the  hollow  of  the  sea.  Hence  the  whole  appearance  of 
the  bed  of  the  stream  is  changed,  and  all  the  lines  of  the 
water  altered  in  their  nature.  The  quiet  stream  is  a  succes- 
sion of  leaps  and  pools  ;  the  leaps  are  light  and  springy,  and 
parabolic,  and  make  a  great  deal  of  splashing  when  they  tum- 
ble into  the  pool  ;  then  we  have  a  space  of  quiet  curdling 
water,  and  another  similar  leap  below.  But  the  stream  when 
it  has  gained  an  impetus  takes  the  shape  of  its  bed,  never 
§23.  But  the  con-  stops,  is  equally  deep  and  equally  swift  every- 
takes^the^siia^  where,  goes  down  into  every  hollow,  not  with  a 
of  its  bed.  leap,  but  with  a  swing,  not  foaming,  nor  splash- 

ing, but  in  the  bending  line  of  a  strong  sea-wave,  and  comes 
up  again  on  the  other  side,  over  rock  and  ridge,  with  the  ease 
of  a  bounding  leopard  ;  if  it  meet  a  rock  three  or  four  feet 
above  the  level  of  its  bed,  it  will  neither  part  nor  foam,  nor 
express  any  concern  about  the  matter,  but  clear  it  in  a  smooth 
dome  of  water,  without  apparent  exertion,  coming  down  again 
as  smoothly  on  the  other  side  ;  the  whole  surface  of  the  surge 
being  drawn  into  parallel  lines  by  its  extreme  velocity,  but 
foamless,  except  in  places  where  the  form  of  the  bed  opposes 
itself  at  some  direct  angle  to  such  a  line  of  fall,  and  causes  a 
breaker  ;  so  that  the  whole  river  has  the  appearance  of  a  deep 
and  raging  sea,  with  this  only  difference,  that  the  torrent- 
waves  always  break  backwards,  and  sea-waves  forwards. 
§  24.  Its  exquisite  Thus,  then,  in  the  water  which  has  gained  an 
curved  hues.  impetus,  we  have  the  most  exquisite  arrange- 
ments of  curved  lines,  perpetually  changing  from  convex  to 
concave,  and  vice  versa,  following  every  swell  and  hollow  of 
the  bed  with  their  modulating  grace,  and  all  in  unison  of  mo- 
tion, presenting  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  series  of  inorganic 
forms  which  nature  can  possibly  produce  ;  for  the  sea  runs 
too  much  into  similar  and  concave  curves  with  sharp  edges, 
but  every  motion  of  the  torrent  is  united,  and  all  its  curves 
are  modifications  of  beautiful  line. 


128         OF  WATEE,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


We  see,  therefore,  why  Turner  seizes  on  these  curved  lines 
of  the  torrent,  not  only  as  being  among  the  most  beautiful 
forms  of  nature,  but  because  they  are  an  instant  expression 
§25.    Turner's  utmost  power  and  velocity,  and  tell  us 

t^e^^^  historical  torrent  has  been  flowing  before  we  see 

*^^th.  it.    For  the  leap  and  splash  might  be  seen  in  the 

sudden  freakishness  of  a  quiet  stream,  or  the  fall  of  a  rivulet 
over  a  mill-dam  ;  but  the  undulating  line  is  the  exclusive  at- 
tribute of  the  mountain  torrent,*  whose  fall  and  fury  have 
made  the  valleys  echo  for  miles  ;  and  thus  the  moment  we 
see  one  of  its  curves  over  a  stone  in  the  foreground,  we  know 
how  far  it  has  come,  and  how  fiercely.  And  in  the  drawing 
we  have  been  speaking  of,  the  lower  fall  of  the  Tees,  in  the 
foreground  of  the  Killiecrankie  and  Rhymer's  Glen,  and  of 
the  St.  Maurice,  in  Rogers's  Italy,  we  shall  find  the  most  ex- 
quisite instances  of  the  use  of  such  lines  :  but 

§  2fi    His  exquis- 

ite  drawing  of  the  the  most  perfect  of  all  in  the  Llanthony  Abbey, 

continuous  torrent  ,  ^         ,  iij?. 

in  the  Llanthony  which  may  be  Considered  as  the  standard  ot  tor- 
rent-drawing.    The  chief  light  of  the  picture 

*  On  a  large  scale  it  is  so,  but  the  same  lines  are  to  be  seen  for  the 
moment  whenever  water  becomes  exceedingly  rapid,  and  yet  feels  the 
bottom  as  it  passes,  being  nob  thrown  up  or  cast  clear  of  it.  In  general, 
the  drawing  of  w  ater  fails  from  being  too  interrupted,  the  forms  flung 
hither  and  thither,  and  broken  up  and  covered  with  bright  touches,  in- 
stead of  being  wrought  out  in  their  real  unities  of  curvature.  It  is  dif- 
ficult enough  to  draw  a  curved  surface,  even  when  it  is  rough  and  has 
texture  ;  but  to  indicate  the  varied  and  sweeping  forms  of  a  crystalline 
and  polished  substance,  requires  far  more  skill  and  patience  than  most 
artists  possess.  In  some  respects,  it  is  impossible.  I  do  not  suppose 
any  means  of  art  are  capable  of  rightly  expressing  the  smooth,  multitud- 
inous rippling  of  a  rapid  rivulet  of  shallow  water,  giving  its  transparency 
lustre  and  fully- developed  forms  ;  and  the  greater  number  of  the  lines 
and  actions  of  torrent-waves  are  equally  inexpressible.  The  effort 
should,  nevertheless,  always  be  made,  and  whatever  is  sacrificed  in  color, 
freedom,  or  brightness,  the  real  contours  ought  always  in  some  measure 
to  be  drawn,  as  a  careful  draughtsman  secures  those  of  flesh,  or  any 
other  finely- modelled  snrface.  It  is  better,  in  many  respects,  the  draw- 
ing' should  miss  of  being  like  water,  than  that  it  should  miss  in  this  one 
rospect  the  grandeur  of  water.  Many  tricks  of  scratching  and  dashing 
will  bring  out  a  deceptive  resemblance  ;  the  determined  and  laborious 
rendering  of  contour  alone  secure.s  subli'uiiy. 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER, 


129 


here  falls  upon  the  surface  of  the  stream,  swelled  by  recent 
rain,  and  its  mighty  waves  come  roiling  down  close  to  the 
spectator,  green  and  clear,  but  pale  with  anger,  in  gigantic, 
unbroken,  oceanic  curves,  bending  into  each  other  without 
break  or  foam,  though  jets  of  fiery  spray  are  cast  into  the  air 
along  the  rocky  shore,  and  rise  in  the  sunshine  in  dusty  vapor. 
The  whole  surface  is  one  united  race  of  mad  motion  ;  all  the 
waves  dragged,  as  I  have  described,  into  lines  and  furrows  by 
their  swiftness,  and  every  one  of  these  fine  forms  is  drawn 
with  the  most  studied  chiaroscuro  of  delicate  color,  grays  and 
greens,  as  silvery  and  pure  as  the  finest  passages  of  Paul 
Veronese,  and  with  a  refinement  of  execution  which  the  eye 
strains  itself  m  looking  into.  The  rapidity  and  gigantic  force 
of  this  torrent,  the  exquisite  refinement  of  its  color,  and  the 
vividness  of  foam  which  is  obtained  through  a  general  middle 
tint,  render  it  about  the  most  perfect  piece  of  painting  of 
running  water  in  existence. 

Now  this  picture  is,  as  was  noticed  in  our  former  reference 
to  it,  full  of  expression  of  every  kind  of  motion  :  the  clouds 
are  in  wild  haste  ;  the  sun  is  gleaming  fast  and  fitfully  through 
§  27.  And  of  the  leaves  ;  the  rain  drifting  away  along  the 
renr^n  ¥he  Me?-"  ^ill-side  ;  and  the  torrent,  the  principal  object, 
cury  and  Argus,  complete  the  impression,  is  made  the  wildest 
thing  of  all,  and  not  only  wild  before  us,  and  with  us,  but 
bearing  with  it  in  its  every  motion,  from  its  long  course,  the 
record  of  its  rage.  Observe  how  differently  Turner  uses  his 
torrent  when  the  spirit  of  the  picture  is  repose.  In  the  Mer- 
cury and  Argus,  we  have  also  a  stream  in  the  foreground  ; 
but,  in  coming  down  to  us,  we  see  it  stopping  twice  in  two 
quiet  and  glassy  pools,  upon  which  the  drinking  cattle  cast 
an  unstirred  image.  From  the  nearest  of  these,  the  water 
leaps  in  three  cascades  into  another  basin  close  to  us  ;  it 
trickles  in  silver  threads  through  the  leaves  at  its  edge,  and 
falls  tinkling  and  splashing  (though  in  considerable  body)  into 
the  pool,  stirring  its  quiet  surface,  at  which  a  bird  is  stooping 
to  drink,  with  concentric  and  curdling  ripples  which  divide 
round  the  stone  at  its  farthest  border,  and  descend  in  spark- 
ling foam  over  the  lip  of  the  basin.  Thus  we  find,  in  every 
Vol.  II. -9 


130         OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


case,  the  system  of  Turner's  truth  entirely  unbroken,  each 
phase  and  phenomenon  of  nature  being  recorded  exactly 
where  it  is  most  valuable  and  impressive. 

We  have  not,  however,  space  to  follow  out  the  variety  of 
his  torrent-drawing.    The  above  two  examples  are  character- 
istic of  the  two  great  divisions  or  classes  of  torrents — that 
whose  motion  is  continuous,  and  whose  motion 

§  28.  Various  cases.   ...  j_    ^        ^^    ^        -  p 

is  interrupted  :  all  drawing  oi  running  water 
will  resolve  itself  into  the  representation  of  one  or  other  of 
these.  The  descent  of  the  distant  stream  in  the  vignette  to 
the  Boy  of  Egremond  is  slight,  but  very  striking  ;  and  the 
Junction  of  the  Greta  and  Tees,  a  singular  instance  of  the 
bold  drawing  of  the  complicated  forms  of  a  shallow  stream 
among  multitudinous  rocks.  A  still  finer  example  occurs  in 
a  recent  drawing  of  Dazio  Grande,  on  the  St.  Gothard,  the 
waves  of  the  Toccia,  clear  and  blue,  fretting  among  the  gran- 
ite debris  which  were  brought  down  by  the  storm  that  de- 
stroyed the  whole  road.  In  the  Ivy  bridge  the  subject  is  the 
rest  of  the  torrent  in  a  pool  among  fallen  rocks,  the  forms  of 
the  stones  are  seen  through  the  clear  brown  water,  and  their 
reflections  mingle  with  those  of  the  foliage. 

More  determined  efforts  have  at  all  periods  been  made  in 
sea  painting  than  in  torrent  painting,  yet  less  successful.  As 
above  stated,  it  is  easy  to  obtain  a  resemblance  of  broken 
^  29.  Sea  painting,  running  watcr  by  tricks  and  dexterities,  but 
the  sea  must  be  legitimately  drawn  ;  it  cannot 
be  given  as  utterly  disorganized  and  confused, 
its  weight  and  mass  must  be  expressed,  and  the  efforts  at  ex- 
pression of  it  end  in  failure  with  all  but  the  most  powerful 
men  ;  even  with  these  few  a  partial  success  must  be  considered 
worthy  of  the  highest  praise. 

As  the  right  rendering  of  the  Alps  depends  on  power  of 
drawing  snow,  so  the  right  painting  of  the  sea  must  depend, 
at  least  in  all  coast  scenery,  in  no  small  measure  on  the  power 
of  drawing  foam.  Yet  there  are  two  conditions  of  foam  of 
invariable  occurrence  on  breaking  waves,  of  wliich  I  have 
never  seen  the  slightest  record  attempted  ;  first  the  thick 
creamy  curdling  overlapping  massy  form  which  remains  for  a 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUIINER,  131 


moment  only  after  the  fall  of  the  wave,  and  is  seen  in  per- 
fection in  its  running  up  the  beach  ;  and  secondly,  the  thin 
white  coating  into  which  this  subsides,  which  opens  into  oval 
gaps  and  clefts,  marbling  the  waves  over  their  whole  surface, 
and  connecting  the  breakers  on  a  flat  shore  by  long  dragging 
streams  of  white. 

It  is  evident  that  the  difficulty  of  expressing  either  of  these 
two  conditions  must  be  immense.  The  lapping  and  curdling 
form  is  difficult  enough  to  catch  even  w^hen  the  lines  of  its 
undulation  alone  are  considered  ;  but  the  lips,  so  to  speak, 
which  lie  along  these  lines,  are  full,  projecting,  and  marked 
by  beautiful  light  and  shade  ;  each  has  its  high  light,  a  gra- 
dation into  shadow  of  indescribable  delicacy,  a  bright  reflected 
light  and  a  dark  cast  shadow  ;  to  draw  all  this  requires  labor, 
and  care,  and  firmness  of  work,  which,  as  I  imagine,  must  al- 
ways, however  skilfully  bestowed,  destroy  all  impression  of 
wildness,  accidentalism,  and  evanescence,  and  so  kill  the  sea. 
Again,  the  openings  in  the  thin  subsided  foam  in  their  irre- 
gular modifications  of  circular  and  oval  shapes  dragged  hither 
and  thither,  would  be  hard  enough  to  draw  even  if  they  could 
be  seen  on  a  flat  surface  ;  instead  of  which,  every  one  of  the 
openings  is  seen  in  undulation  on  a  tossing  surface,  broken 
up  over  small  surges  and  ripples,  and  so  thrown  into  perspec- 
tives of  the  most  hopeless  intricacy.  Now  it  is  not  easy  to 
express  the  lie  of  a  pattern  with  oval  openings  on  the  folds 
of  drapery.  I  do  not  know  that  any  one  under  the  mark  of 
Veronese  or  Titian  could  even  do  this  as  it  ought  to  be  done, 
yet  in  drapery  much  stiffness  and  error  may  be  overlooked  ; 
not  so  in  sea, — the  slightest  inaccuracy,  the  slightest  want  of 
flow  and  freedom  in  the  line,  is  attached  by  the  eye  in  a  mo- 
ment of  high  treason,  and  I  believe  success  to  be  impossible. 

Yet  there  is  not  a  wave  or  any  violently  agitated  sea  on 
which  both  these  forms  do  not  appear, — the  latter  especially, 
after  some  time  of  storm,  extends  over  their  whole  surfaces  ; 
the  reader  sees,  therefore,  why  I  said  that  sea  could  only  be 
painted  by  means  of  more  or  less  dexterous  conventionalisms, 
since  two  of  its  most  enduring  phenomena  cannot  be  repre- 
sented at  all. 


132         OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


Again,  as  respects  the  form  of  breakers  on  an  even  shore, 
there  is  difficulty  of  no  less  formidable  kind.    There  is  in 
them  an  irreconcilable  mixture  of  fury  and  formalism.  Their 
hollow  surface  is  marked  by  parallel  lines,  like 

§  30.  Character  of     .  -n        •  j  j      ^  ji 

shore-breakers,  ai-  tliosc  ot  a  smooth  miii-weir,  and  graduated  by 
so  inexprcbsibie.  reflected  and  transmitted  lights  of  the  most 
wonderful  intricacy,  its  curve  being  at  the  same  time  neces- 
sarily of  mathematical  purity  and  precision  ;  yet  at  the  top 
of  this  curve,  when  it  nods  over,  there  is  a  sudden  laxity  and 
giving  way,  the  water  swings  and  jumps  along  the  ridge  like 
a  shaken  chain,  and  the  motion  runs  from  part  to  part  as  it 
does  through  a  serpent's  body.  Then  the  wind  is  at  work  on 
the  extreme  edge,  and  instead  of  letting  it  fling  itself  off  nat- 
urally, it  supports  it,  and  drives  it  back,  or  scrapes  it  off,  and 
carries  it  bodily  away  ;  so  that  the  spray  at  the  top  is  in  a 
continual  transition  between  forms  projected  by  their  own 
weight,  and  forms  blown  and  carried  off  with  their  weight 
overcome  ;  then  at  last,  when  it  has  come  down,  who  shall 
say  what  shape  that  may  be  called,  which  shape  has  none  of 
the  great  crash  where  it  touches  the  beach. 

I  think  it  is  that  last  crash  which  is  the  great  taskmaster. 
Nobody  can  do  anything  with  it.  I  have  seen  Copley  Field- 
ing come  very  close  to  the  jerk  and  nod  of  the  lifted  threat- 
ening edge,  curl  it  very  successfully,  and  without  any  look 
of  its  having  been  in  papers,  down  nearly  to  the  beach,  but 
the  final  fall  has  no  thunder  in  it.  Turner  has  tried  hard  for 
it  once  or  twice,  but  it  will  not  do.  The  moment  is  given  in 
the  Sidon  of  the  Bible  Illustrations,  and  more  elaborately  in 
a  painting  of  Bamborough  ;  in  both  these  cases  there  is  little 
foam  at  the  bottom,  and  the  fallen  breaker  looks  like  a  wall, 
yet  grand  always  ;  and  in  the  latter  picture  very  beautifully 
assisted  in  expression  by  the  tossing  of  a  piece  of  cable,  which 
some  figures  are  dragging  ashore,  and  which  the  breaker  flings 
into  the  air  as  it  falls.  Perhaps  the  most  successful  render- 
ing of  the  forms  was  in  the  Hero  and  Leander,  but  there  the 
drawing  was  rendered  easier  by  the  powerful  effect  of  light 
which  disguised  the  foam. 

It  is  not,  however,  from  the  shore  that  Turner  usually  stud- 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


133 


ies  his  sea.  Seen  from  the  land,  the  curl  of  the  breakers,  even 
in  nature,  is  somewhat  uniform  and  monotonous  ;  the  size  of 
§  31.  Their  effect,        waves  out  at  sea  is  uncomprehended,  and 

how  injured  when  ^j^Qge  nearer  the  eye  seem  to  succeed  and  re- 
seen  from  the  »/ 

^^"^■e-  semble  each  other,  to  move  slowly  to  the  beach, 

and  to  break  in  the  same  lines  and  forms. 

Afloat  even  twenty  yards  from  the  shore,  we  receive  a 
totally  different  impression.  Every  w^ave  around  us  appears 
vast — every  one  different  from  all  the  rest — and  the  breakers 
present,  now  that  we  see  them  with  their  backs  towards  us, 
the  grand,  extended,  and  varied  lines  of  long  curvature,  which 
are  peculiarly  expressive  both  of  velocity  and  power.  Reck- 
lessness, before  unfelt,  is  manifested  in  the  mad,  perpetual, 
changeful,  undirected  motion,  not  of  wave  after  wave,  as  it 
appears  from  the  shore,  but  of  the  very  same  water  rising  and 
falling.  Of  waves  that  successively  approach  and  break,  each 
appears  to  the  mind  a  separate  individual,  whose  part  being 
performed,  it  perishes,  and  is  succeeded  by  another  ;  and  there 
is  nothing  in  this  to  impress  us  with  the  idea  of  restlessness, 
any  more  than  in  any  successive  and  continuous  functions  of 
life  and  death.  But  it  is  when  we  perceive  that  it  is  no  suc- 
cession of  wave,  but  the  same  water  constantly  rising,  and 
crashing,  and  recoiling,  and  rolling  in  again  in  new  forms  and 
with  fresh  fury,  that  we  perceive  the  perturbed  spirit,  and 
feel  the  intensity  of  its  unwearied  rage.  The  sensation  of 
power  is  also  trebled  ;  for  not  only  is  the  vastness  of  apparent 
size  much  increased,  but  the  whole  action  is  different  ;  it  is 
not  a  passive  wave  rolling  sleepily  forward  until  it  tumbles 
heavily,  prostrated  upon  the  beach,  but  a  sweeping  exertion 
of  tremendous  and  living  strength,  which  does  not  now  ap- 
pear to  fall^  but  to  hurst  upon  the  shore  ;  which  never  per- 
ishes, but  recoils  and  recovers. 

Aiming  at  these  grand  characters  of  the  Sea,  Turner  almost 
always  places  the  spectator,  not  on  the  shore, 

§  32.  Turner's  ex-    ,        /  i  .  .      I         .  .  . 

pression  of  heavy  but  twenty  or  thirty  yards  irom  it,  beyond  the 
rolling  sea.  ^^^^  range  of  the  breakers,  as  in  the  Land's 

End,  Fowey,  Dunbar,  and  Laugharne.  The  latter  has  been 
well  engraved,  and  may  be  taken  as  a  standard  of  the  expres- 


134 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUBNER. 


sion  of  fitfulness  and  power.  The  grand  division  of  the  whole 
space  of  the  sea  by  a  few  dark  continuous  furrows  of  tremen- 
dous swell,  (the  breaking  of  one  of  which  alone  has  strewed 
the  rocks  in  front  with  ruin,)  furnishes  us  with  an  estimate 
of  space  and  strength,  which  at  once  reduces  the  men  upon 
the  shore  to  insects  ;  and  yet  through  this  terrific  simplicity 
there  is  indicated  a  fitfulness  and  fury  in  the  tossing  of  the 
individual  lines,  which  give  to  the  whole  sea  a  wild,  unwearied, 
reckless  incoherency,  like  that  of  an  enraged  multitude,  whose 
masses  act  together  in  frenzy,  while  not  one  individual  feels 
as  another.  Especial  attention  is  to  be  directed  to  the  flat- 
ness of  all  the  lines,  for  the  same  principle  holds  in  sea  which 
we  have  seen  in  mountains.  All  the  size  and  sublimity  of 
nature  are  given  not  by  the  height,  but  by  the  breadth  of  her 
masses  :  and  Turner,  by  following  her  in  her  sweeping  lines, 
while  he  does  not  lose  the  elevation  of  its  surges,  adds  in  a 
tenfold  degree  to  their  power  :  farther,  observe  the  peculiar 
expression  of  weight  which  there  is  in  Turner's 

§33.   With  pecn-        ^  •     i      ^  i  •    j     i.  •  u 

liar  expression  of  wavcs,  precisely  oi  the  same  kind  which  we  saw 
^^^^^**  in  his  waterfall.    We  have  not  a  cutting,  spring- 

ing, elastic  line — no  'jumping  or  leaping  in  the  waves  :  that 
is  the  characteristic  of  Chelsea  Reach  or  Hampstead  Ponds  in 
a  storm.  But  the  surges  roll  and  plunge  with  such  prostration 
and  hurling  of  their  mass  against  the  shore,  that  we  feel  the 
rocks  are  shaking  under  them  ;  and,  to  add  yet  more  to  this 
impression,  observe  how  little,  comparatively,  they  are  broken 
by  the  wind  ;  above  the  floating  wood,  and  along  the  shore, 
we  have  indication  of  a  line  of  torn  spray  ;  but  it  is  a  mere 
fringe  along  the  ridge  of  the  surge — no  interference  with  its 
gigantic  body.  The  wind  has  no  power  over  its  tremendous 
unity  of  force  and  weight.  Finally,  observe  how,  on  the  rocks 
on  the  left,  the  violence  and  swiftness  of  the  rising  wave  are 
indicated  by  precisely  the  same  lines  which  we  saw  were  in- 
dicative of  fury  in  the  torrent.  The  water  on  these  rocks  is 
the  body  of  the  wave  which  has  just  broken,  rushing  up  over 
them  ;  and  in  doing  so,  like  the  torrent,  it  does  not  break, 
nor  foam,  nor  part  upon  the  rock,  but  accommodates  itself  to 
every  one  of  its  swells  and  hollows,  with  undulating  lines, 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER, 


135 


whose  grace  and  variety  might  alone  serve  us  for  a  day's 
study  ;  and  it  is  only  where  two  streams  of  this  rushing  wa- 
ter meet  in  the  hollow  of  the  rock,  that  their  force  is  shown 
by  the  vertical  bound  of  the  spray. 

In  the  distance  of  this  grand  picture,  there  are  two  waves 
which  entirely  depart  from  the  principle  observed  by  all  the 
rest,  and  spring  high  into  the  air.  They  have  a  message  for  us 
^     _  which  it  is  important  that  we  should  understand. 

§  34.  Peculiar  ac-  ^  ^  ^ 

tion  of  recoiling  Their  leap  is  not  a  preparation  for  breakinfj;-, 

waves.  ....  T  1        1     •  •  •  1  r 

neither  is  it  caused  by  their  meeting  with  a  rock. 
It  is  caused  by  their  encounter  with  the  recoil  of  the  preced- 
ing wave.  When  a  large  surge,  in  the  act  of  breaking,  just  as 
it  curls  over,  is  hurled  against  the  face  either  of  a  wall  or  of  a 
vertical  rock,  the  sound  of  the  blow  is  not  a  crash  nor  a  roar; 
it  is  a  report  as  loud  as,  and  in  every  respect  similar  to,  that 
of  a  great  gun,  and  the  wave  is  dashed  back  from  the  rock 
with  force  scarcely  diminished,  but  reversed  in  direction, — 
it  now  recedes  from  the  shore,  and  at  the  instant  that  it  en- 
counters the  following  breaker,  the  result  is  the  vertical 
bound  of  both  which  is  here  rendered  by  Turner.  Such  a 
recoiling  wave  will  proceed  out  to  sea  through  ten  or  twelve 
ranges  of  following  breakers,  before  it  is  overpowered.  The 
effect  of  the  encounter  is  more  completely  and  palpably 
given  in  the  Quilleboeuf,  in  the  Rivers  of  France.  It  is 
peculiarly  instructive  here,  as  informing  us  of  the  nature  of 
the  coast,  and  the  force  of  the  waves,  far  more  clearly  than 
any  spray  about  the  rocks  themselves  could  have  done.  But 
£.  OK  A  ^  *        the  effect  of  the  blow  at  the  shore  itself  is 

§  35.  And  of  the 

stroke  of  a  breaker  myen  in  the  Land's  End,  and  vi2:nette  to 

on  the  shore.  ^      .  .  ^ 

Lycidas.  Under  favorable  circumstances,  with 
an  advancing  tide  under  a  heavy  gale,  where  the  breakers  feel 
the  shore  underneath  them  a  moment  before  they  touch  the 
rock,  so  as  to  nod  over  when  they  strike,  the  effect  is  nearly 
incredible  except  to  an  eye-witness.  T  have  seen  the  w^hole 
body  of  the  wave  rise  in  one  white,  vertical,  broad  fountain, 
eighty  feet  above  the  sea,  half  of  it  beaten  so  fine  as  to  be 
borne  away  by  the  wind,  the  rest  turning  in  the  air  when 
exhausted,  and  falling  back  with  a  weight  and  crash  like 


136         OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


that  of  an  enormous  waterfall.  This  is  given  most  com- 
pletely in  the  Lycidas,  and  the  blow  of  a  less  violent  wave 
among  broken  rocks,  not  meeting  it  with  an  absolute  wall, 
along  the  shore  of  the  Land's  End.  This  last  picture  is  a 
c  QA    n«„«,.oi   study  of  sea  whose  whole  ors^anization  has 

§  36.    Gr  e  n  e  r  a  1  o 

character  of  sea  been  broken  up  by  constant  recoils  from  a 

on  a  rocky  coast  ^  *^ 

given  by  Turner  rockv  coast.    The  Laugrhame  srives  the  surg-e 

in  the  Land's  End.  i        •    ,        ^    ,  .  ^ 

and  weight  or  the  ocean  in  a  gale,  on  a  com- 
paratively level  shore  ;  but  the  Land's  End,  the  entire  dis- 
order of  the  surges  when  every  one  of  them,  divided  and 
entangled  among  promontories  as  it  rolls  in,  and  beaten 
back  part  by  part  from  walls  of  rock  on  this  side  and  that 
side,  recoils  like  the  defeated  division  of  a  great  army, 
throwing  all  behind  it  into  disorder,  breaking  up  the  suc- 
ceeding waves  into  vertical  ridges,  which  in  their  turn,  yet 
more  totally  shattered  upon  the  shore,  retire  in  more  hope- 
less confusion,  until  the  whole  surface  of  the  sea  becomes 
one  dizzy  whirl  of  rushing,  writhing,  tortured,  undirected 
rage,  bounding,  and  crashing,  and  coiling  in  an  anarchy  of 
enormous  power,  subdivided  into  myriads  of  waves,  of  which 
every  one  is  not,  be  it  remembered,  a  separate  surge,  but 
part  and  portion  of  a  vast  one,  actuated  by  internal  power, 
and  giving  in  every  direction  the  mighty  undulation  of  im- 
petuous line  which  glides  over  the  rocks  and  writhes  in  the 
wind,  overwhelming  the  one,  and  piercing  the  other  with  the 
form,  fury,  and  swiftness  of  a  sheet  of  lambent  fire.  And 
throughout  the  rendering  of  all  this,  there  is  not  one  false 
curve  given,  not  one  which  is  not  the  perfect  expression  oi 
visible  motion  ;  and  the  forms  of  the  infinite  sea  are  drawn 
throughout  with  that  utmost  mastery  of  art  which,  through 
the  deepest  study  of  every  line,  makes  every  line  appear  the 
wildest  child  of  chance,  while  yet  each  is  in  itself  a  subject 
and  a  picture  different  from  all  else  around.  Of  the  color  of 
this  magnificent  sea  I  have  before  spoken  ;  it  is  a  solemn 
green  gray,  (with  its  foam  seen  dimly  through  the  darkness 
of  twilight,)  modulated  with  the  fulness,  changefulness,  and 
sadness  of  a  deep,  wild  melody. 

The  greater  number  of  Turner's  paintings  of  open  sea  bo* 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER.  137 


long  to  a  somewhat  earlier  period  than  these  drawings  ;  nor, 
generally  speaking,  are  they  of  equal  value.     It  appears  to 
me  that  the  artist  had  at  that  time  either  less 

§  87.    Open  seas  iti*        i  i 

of  Turner's  ear-  knowledge  oi,  or  less  delight  in,  the  character- 
iier  times.  istios  of  deep  water  than  of  coast  sea,  and  that, 

in  consequence,  he  suffered  himself  to  be  influenced  by  some 
of  the  qualities  of  the  Dutch  sea-painters.  In  particular,  he 
borrowed  from  them  the  habit  of  casting  a  dark  shadow  on 
the  near  waves,  so  as  to  bring  out  a  stream  of  light  behind  ; 
and  though  he  did  this  in  a  more  legitimate  way  than  they, 
that  is  to  say,  expressing  the  light  by  touches  on  the  foam, 
and  indicating  the  shadow  as  cast  on  foamy  surface,  still  the 
habit  has  induced  much  feebleness  and  conventionality 
in  the  pictures  of  the  period.  His  drawing  of  the  waves 
was  also  somewhat  petty  and  divided,  small  forms  covered 
W'ith  white  flat  spray,  a  condition  which  I  doubt  not  the  art- 
ist has  seen  on  some  of  the  shallow  Dutch  seas,  but  which  I 
have  never  met  with  myself,  and  of  the  rendering  of  which 
therefore  I  cannot  speak.  Yet  even  in  these,  which  I  think 
among  the  poorest  works  of  the  painter,  the  expressions  of 
breeze,  motion,  and  light,  are  very  marvellous  ;  and  it  is  in- 
structive to  compare  them  either  with  the  lifeless  works  of 
the  Dutch  themselves,  or  with  any  modern  imitations  of  them, 
as  for  instance  with  the  seas  of  Callcott,  where  all  the  light 
is  white  and  all  the  shadows  gray,  where  no  distinction  is 
made  between  water  and  foam,  or  between  real  and  reflec- 
tive shadow,  and  which  are  generally  without  evidence  of 
the  artists  having  ever  seen  the  sea. 

Some  pictures,  however,  belonging  to  this  period  of  Turner 
are  free  from  the  Dutch  infection,  and  show  the  real  power 
of  the  artist.  A  very  important  one  is  in  the  possession 
of  Lord  Francis  Egerton,  somewhat  heavy  in  its  forms,  but 
remarkable  for  the  grandeur  of  distance  obtained  at  the 
horizon  ;  a  much  smaller,  but  more  powerful  example  is  the 
Port  Ruysdael  in  the  possession  of  E.  Bickneil,  Esq.,  with 
which  I  know  of  no  work  at  all  comparable  for  the  expres- 
sion of  the  white,  wild,  cold,  comfortless  waves  of  northern 
sea,  even  though  the  sea  is  almost  subordinate  to  the  awful 


138         OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TUBNEB. 


rolling  clouds.  Both  these  pictures  are  very  gray.  The  Pas 
de  Calais  has  more  color,  and  shows  more  art  than  either,  yet 
is  less  impressive.  Recently,  two  marines  of  the  same  sub- 
dued color  have  appeared  (1843)  among  his  more  radiant 
works.  One,  Ostend,  somewhat  forced  and  affected,  but  the 
other,  also  called  Port  Ruysdael,  is  among  tlie  most  perfect 
sea  pictures  he  has  produced,  and  especially  remarkable  as 
being  painted  without  one  marked  opposition  either  of  color 
or  of  shade,  all  quiet  and  simple  even  to  an  extreme,  so  that 
the  picture  was  exceedingly  unattractive  at  first  sight.  The 
shadow  of  the  pier-head  on  the  near  waves  is  marked  solely 
by  touches  indicative  of  reflected  light,  and  so  mysteriously 
that  when  the  picture  is  seen  near,  it  is  quite  untraceable, 
and  comes  into  existence  as  the  spectator  retires.  It  is  thus 
of  peculiar  truth  and  value  ;  and  instructive  as  a  contrast  to 
the  dark  shadows  of  his  earlier  time. 

Few  people,  comparatively,  have  ever  seen  the  effect  on 
the  sea  of  a  powerful  gale  continued  without  intermission 
for  three  or  four  days  and  nights,  and  to  those  who  have  not, 
I  believe  it  must  be  unimasrinable,  not  from  the 

§38.  Effect  of  sea  .  ^  J 

after  prolonged  mere  lorcc  or  size  oi  surge,  but  irom  the  com- 
plete annihilation  of  the  limit  between  sea  and 
air.  The  water  from  its  prolonged  agitation  is  beaten,  not 
into  mere  creaming  foam,  but  into  masses  of  accumulated 
yeast,*  which  hang  in  ropes  and  wreaths  from  wave  to  wave, 

*  The  *  *  yesty  waves  "  of  Shakspeare  have  made  the  likeness  familiar, 
and  probably  most  readers  take  the  expression  as  merely  equivalent  to 
"foamy  but  Shakspeare  knew  better.  Sea-foam  does  not,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  last  a  moment  after  it  is  formed,  but  disap- 
pears, as  above  described,  in  a  mere  white  film.  But  the  foam  of  a  pro- 
longed tempest  is  altogether  different;  it  is  ''whipped'*  foam, — thick, 
permanent,  and,  in  a  foul  or  discolored  sea,  very  ugly,  especially  in  the 
way  it  hangs  about  the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  gathers  into  clotted  con- 
cretions before  the  driving  wind.  The  sea  looks  truly  working  or  fer- 
menting. The  following  passage  from  Fenimore  Cooper  is  an  interest- 
ing confirmation  of  the  rest  of  the  above  description,  which  may  be 
depended  upon  as  entirely  free  from  exaggeration  : — For  the  first  time 
I  now  witnessed  a  tempest  at  sea.  Gales,,  and  pretty  hard  ones,  I  had 
often  seen,  but  the  force  of  the  wind  on  this  occasion  as  much  exceeded 
that  iu  ordinary  galea  of  wind,  as  the  force  of  these  had  ex  eedt'd  that 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TTJBNEB,  139 


and  where  one  curls  over  to  break,  form  a  festoon  like  a  dra- 
pery, from  its  edge  ;  these  are  taken  up  by  the  wind,  not  in 
dissipating  dust,  but  bodily,  in  writhing,  hanging,  coiling 
masses,  which  make  the  air  white  and  thick  as  with  snow, 
only  the  flakes  are  a  foot  or  two  long  each  ;  the  surges  them- 
selves are  full  of  foam  in  their  very  bodies,  underneath,  mak- 
ing them  white  all  through,  as  the  water  is  under  a  great 
cataract ;  and  their  masses,  being  thus  half  water  and  half 
air,  are  torn  to  pieces  by  the  wind  whenever  they  rise,  and 
carried  away  in  roaring  smoke,  which  chokes  and  strangles 
like  actual  water.  Add  to  this,  that  when  the  air  has  been 
exhausted  of  its  moisture  by  long  rain,  the  spray  of  the  sea 
is  caught  by  it  as  described  above,  (Section  III.  Chapter  YI. 
§  13,)  and  covers  its  surface  not  merely  with  the  smoke  of 
finely  divided  water,  but  with  boiling  mist  ;  imagine  also  the 
low  rain-clouds  brought  down  to  the  very  level  of  the  sea,  as 
I  have  often  seen  them,  w^hirling  and  flying  in  rags  and  frag- 
ments from  wave  to  wave  ;  and  finally,  conceive  the  surges 
themselves  in  their  utmost  pitch  of  power,  velocity,  vastness, 
and  madness,  lifting  themselves  in  precipices  and  peaks,  fur- 
rowed with  their  whirl  of  ascent,  through  all  this  chaos  ;  and 
you  will  understand  that  there  is  indeed  no  distinction  left 
between  the  sea  and  air  ;  that  no  object,  nor  horizon,  nor 
any  landmark  or  natural  evidence  of  position  is  left  ;  that 
the  heaven  is  all  spray,  and  the  ocean  all  cloud,  and  that  you 
can  see  no  farther  in  any  direction  than  you  could  see 
through  a  cataract.  Suppose  the  effect  of  the  first  sunbeam 
sent  from  above  to  show  this  annihilation  to  itself,  and  you 

of  a  whole-sail  breeze.  The  seas  seemed  crushed ;  the  pressure  of  the 
swooping  atmosphere,  as  the  currents  of  the  air  went  howling  over  the 
surface  of  the  ocean,  fairly  preventing  them  from  rising  ;  or  where  a 
mound  of  water  did  appear,  it  was  scooped  up  and  borne  off  in  spray,  as 
the  axe  dubs  inequalities  from  the  loj;-.  When  the  day  returned,  a 
species  of  lurid,  sombre  light  was  diffused  over  the  watery  waste,  though 
nothing  was  visible  but  the  ocean  and  the  ship.  Even  the  sea-birds 
seemed  to  have  taken  refuge  in  the  caverns  of  the  adjacent  coast,  none 
reappearing  with  the  dawn.  The  air  was  full  of  spray,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  eye  could  penetrate  as  far  into  the  humid  atmosphere  as 
half  a  mile. " — Miles  WaUingford.  Half  a  mile  is  an  over-estimate  in  coast. 


i40 


OF  WATER,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER. 


have  the  sea  picture  of  the  Academy,  1842 — the  Snow-storm, 
one  of  the  very  grandest  statements  of  sea-motion,  mist,,  and 
light  that  has  ever  been  put  on  canvas,  even  by  Turner.  Of 
course  it  was  not  understood  ;  his  finest  works  never  are  ;  but 
there  was  some  apology  for  the  public's  not  comprehending 
this,  for  few  people  have  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  sea 
at  such  a  time,  and  when  they  have,  cannot  face  it.  To  hold 
by  a  mast  or  a  rock,  and  watch  it,  is  a  prolonged  endurance 
of  drowning  which  few  people  have  courage  to  go  through. 
To  those  who  have,  it  is  one  of  the  noblest  lessons  of  nature. 

But,  I  think,  the  noblest  sea  that  Turner  has  ever  painted, 
and,  if  so,  the  noblest  certainly  ever  painted  by  man,  is 
that  of  the  Slave  Ship,  the  chief  Academy  picture  of  the 
„  „  ^         ,    Exhibition  of  1840.    It  is  a  sunset  on  the 

§  39.  T  u  r  n  e  r '  s 

noblest  work,  the  Atlantic  after  prolonsred  storm  ;  but  the  storm 

painting    of    the    .  •  n     i    n    i  i  i 

deep  open  sea  in  IS  partially  lulled,  and  the  torn  and  streamma: 

the  Slave  Ship.  •       i       i  *•        •  i   .  v  .  i 

rain-clouds  are  moving  in  scarlet  lines  to  lose 
themselves  in  the  hollow  of  the  night.  The  whole  surface  of 
sea  included  in  the  picture  is  divided  into  two  ridges  of 
enormous  swell,  not  high,  nor  local,  but  a  low,  broad 
heaving  of  the  whole  ocean,  like  the  lifting  of  its  bosom  by 
deep-drawn  breath  after  the  torture  of  the  storm.  Between 
these  two  ridges,  the  fire  of  the  sunset  falls  along  the  trough 
of  the  sea,  dyeing  it  with  an  awful  but  glorious  light,  the 
intense  and  lurid  splendor  which  burns  like  gold  and  bathes 
like  blood.  Along  this  fiery  path  and  valley,  the  tossing 
waves  by  which  the  swell  of  the  sea  is  restlessly  divided,  lift 
themselves  in  dark,  indefinite,  fantastic  forms,  each  casting 
a  faint  and  ghastly  shadow  behind  it  along  the  illumined 
foam.  They  do  not  rise  everywhere,  but  three  or  four 
together  in  wild  groups,  fitfully  and  furiously,  as  the  under 
strength  of  the  swell  compels  or  permits  them  ;  leaving 
between  them  treacherous  spaces  of  level  and  whirling 
water,  now  lighted  with  green  and  lamp-like  fire,  now  flash- 
ing back  the  gold  of  the  declining  sun,  now  fearfully  dyed 
from  above  with  the  indistinguishable  images  of  the  burning 
clouds,  which  fall  upon  them  in  flakes  of  crimson  and  scarlet, 
and  give  to  the  reckless  waves  the  added  motion  of  their 


OF  WATEB,  AS  PAINTED  BY  TURNER,  141 


own  fiery  flying.  Purple  and  blue,  the  lurid  shadows  of  the 
hollow  breakers  are  cast  upon  the  mist  of  the  night,  which 
gathers  cold  and  low,  advancing  like  the  shadow  of  death 
upon  the  guilty  *  ship  as  it  labors  amidst  the  lightning  of 
the  sea,  its  thin  masts  written  upon  the  sky  in  lines  of  blood, 
girded  with  condemnation  in  that  fearful  hue  which  signs 
the  sky  with  horror,  and  mixes  its  flaming  flood  with  the 
sunlight, — and  cast  far  along  the  desolate  heave  of  the 
sepulchral  waves,  incarnadines  the  multitudinous  sea. 

I  believe,  if  I  were  reduced  to  rest  Turner's  immortality 
upon  any  single  work,  I  should  choose  this.  Its  daring  con- 
ception— ideal  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word — is  based  on 
§  40.  Its  united  purest  truth,  and  wrought  out  with  the  con- 
pStection^  as  "a  ccntratcd  knowledge  of  a  life  ;  its  color  is  abso- 
vvhoie.  lutely  perfect,  not  one  false  or  morbid  hue  in 

any  part  or  line,  and  so  modulated  that  every  square  inch  of 
canvas  is  a  perfect  composition  ;  its  drawing  as  accurate  as 
fearless  ;  the  ship  buoyant,  bending,  and  full  of  motion  ;  its 
tones  as  true  as  they  are  wonderful  ;  "j"  and  the  whole  picture 
dedicated  to  the  most  sublime  of  subjects  and  impressions — 
(completing  thus  the  perfect  system  of  all  truth,  which  we 
have  shown  to  be  formed  by  Turner's  works) — the  power, 
majesty,  and  deathfulness  of  the  open,  deep,  illimitable  Sea. 

*  She  is  a  slaver,  throwing  her  slaves  overboard.  The  near  sea  ia 
encumbered  with  corpses. 

\  There  is  a  piece  of  tone  of  the  same  kind,  equal  in  one  parb,  but 
not  so  united  with  the  rest  of  the  picture,  in  the  storm  scene  illustrative 
of  the  Antiquary, — a  sunset  light  on  polished  sea.  I  ought  to  have 
particularly  mentioned  the  sea  in  the  Lowestoffe,  as  a  piece  of  the  cut- 
ting motion  of  shallow  water,  under  storm,  altogether  in  gray,  which 
should  be  especially  contrasted,  as  a  piece  of  color,  with  the  grays  of 
Vandevelde.  And  the  sea  in  the  Great  Yarmouth  should  have  been 
noticed  for  its  expression  of  water  in  violent  agitation,  seen  in  enor- 
mous extent  from  a  great  elevation.  There  is  almost  every  form  of 
sea  in  it, — rolling  waves  dashing  on  the  pier — successive  breakers 
rolling  to  the  shore — a  vast  horizon  of  multitudinous  waves — and 
winding  canals  of  calm  water  along  the  sands,  bringing  fragments  of 
bright  sky  down  into  their  yellow  waste.  There  is  hardly  one  of  the 
views  of  the  Southern  Coast  which  does  not  give  some  new  condition 
or  circumstance  of  sea. 


142 


OF  fEUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


OF  TEUTH  OF  VEGETATION. -CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION". 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  consideration  of  what  was, 
with  the  old  masters,  the  subject  of  most  serious  and  per- 
petual study.  If  they  do  not  give  us  truth  here,  they  can- 
§  1.  T^requent  have  tho^fao^lty  of  truth  in  them  ;  for 
age"irthe°wOTks  foliage  is  the  chief  component  part  of  all  their 
of  the  old  masters,  pictures,  and  is  finished  by  them  with  a  care 
and  labor  which,  if  bestowed  without  attaining  truthj  must 
prove  either  their  total  bluntness  of  perception,  or  total 
powerlessness  of  hand.  With  the  Italian  school  I  can 
scarcely  recollect  a  single  instance  in  which  foliage  does  not 
form  the  greater  part  of  the  picture  ;  in  fact,  they  are  rather 
painters  of  tree-portrait  than  landscape  painters  ;  for  rocks, 
and  sky,  and  architecture  are  usually  mere  accessories  and 
backgrounds  to  the  dark  masses  of  laborious  foliage,  of 
which  the  composition  principally  consists.  Yet  we  shall  be 
less  detained  by  the  examination  of  foliage  than  by  our 
former  subjects  ;  since  where  specific  form  is  organized  and 
complete,  and  the  occurrence  of  the  object  universal,  it  is 
easy,  without  requiring  any  laborious  attention  in  the 
reader,  to  demonstrate  to  him  quite  as  much  of  the  truth  or 
falsehood  of  various  representations  of  it,  as  may  serve  to 
*  determine  the  character  and  rank  of  the  painter. 

It  will  be  best  to  begin  as  nature  does,  with  the  stems  and 
branches,  and  then  to  put  the  leaves  on.  And  in  speaking 
of  trees  generally,  be  it  observed,  when  I  say  all  trees,  I 
mean  only  those  ordinary  forest  or  copse  trees  of  Europe, 
which  are  the  chief  subjects  of  the  landscape  painter.    I  do 


OF  TBUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


143 


not  mean  to  include  every  kind  of  foliage  which  by  any 
accident  can  find  its  way  into  a  picture,  but  the  ordinary 
trees  of  ^]urope, — oak,  elm,  ash,  hazel,  willow,  birch,  beech, 
poplar,  chestnut,  pine,  mulberry,  olive,  ilex,  carubbe,  and 
such  others.  I  do  not  purpose  to  examine  the  character- 
istics of  each  tree  ;  it  will  be  enough  to  observe  the  laws 
^    ^  common  to  all.    First,  then,  neither  the  stems 

§  2.  Laws  common  '  ^ 

to  all  forest  trees,  nor  the  bouo^hs  of  auv  of  the  above  trees  taper. 

Their  branches  do  i  i  ^    i  ttt-i 

not  taper,  but  only  except  where  they  fork.  Wherever  a  stem 
sends  off  a  branch,  or  a  branch  a  lesser  bough, 
or  a  lesser  bough  a  bud,  the  stem  or  the  branch  is,  on  the  in- 
stant, less  in  diameter  by  the  exact  quantity  of  the  branch 
or  the  bough  they  have  sent  off,  and  they  remain  of  the 
same  diameter  ;  or  if  there  be  any  change,  rather  increase 
than  diminish  until  they  send  off  another  branch  or  bough. 
This  law  is  imperative  and  without  exception  ;  no  bough, 
nor  stem,  nor  twig,  ever  tapering  or  becoming  narrower 
towards  its  extremity  by  a  hairbreadth,  save  where  it  parts 
with  some  portion  of  its  substance  at  a  fork  or  bud,  so  that 
if  all  the  twigs  and  sprays  at  the  top  and  sides  of  the  tree, 
which  are,  and  have  beeUj  could  be  united  without  loss  of 
space,  they  would  form  a  round  log  of  the  diameter  of  the 
trunk  from  which  they  spring. 

But  as  the  trunks  of  most  trees  send  off  twigs  and  sprays 
of  light  under  foliage,  of  which  every  individual  fibre  takes 
precisely  its  own  thickness  of  wood  from  the  parent  stem,  and 
as  many  of  these  drop  off,  leaving  nothing  but 

§  3.    Appearance  j   xi    •  '  j. 

of  tapering  caused  a  Small  excresceiice  to  record  their  existence, 
by  fiequent  buds,  ^j^^^.^  -g  frequently  a  slight  and  delicate  appear- 
ance of  tapering  bestowed  on  the  trunk  itself  ;  while  the  same 
operation  takes  place  much  more  extensively  in  the  branches, 
it  being  natural  to  almost  all  trees  to  send  out  from  their 
young  limbs  more  wood  than  they  can  support,  which,  as  the 
stem  increases,  gets  contracted  at  the  point  of  insertion,  so 
as  to  check  the  flow  of  the  sap,  and  then  dies  and  drops  off, 
leaving  all  along  the  bough,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  another, 
a  series  of  small  excrescences,  sufficient  to  account  for  a  de- 
gree of  tapering,  which  is  yet  so  very  slight,  that  if  we  select 


144 


OF  TMUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


a  portion  of  a  branch  with  no  real  fork  or  living  bough  to 
divide  it  or  diminish  it,  the  tapering  is  scarcely  to  be  detected 
by  the  eye  ;  and  if  we  select  a  portion  without  such  evidences 
of  past  ramification,  there  will  be  found  none  w^hatsoever. 

But  nature  takes  great  care  and  pains  to  conceal  this  uni- 
formity in  her  boughs.    They  are  perpetually  parting  with 
little  sprays  here  and  there,  which  steal  away  their  substance 
cautiously,  and  where  the  eye  does  not  perceive 
nal'ure'to  conceal  the  theft,  Until,  a  little  way  above,  it  feels  the 

the  parallelism.       i  ^       £  j.\ 

loss  ;  and  in  the  upper  parts  or  the  tree,  the 
ramifications  take  place  so  constantly  and  delicately,  that  the 
eifect  upon  the  eye  is  precisely  the  same  as  if  the  boughs  ac- 
tually tapered,  except  here  and  there,  where  some  avaricious 
one,  greedy  of  substance,  runs  on  for  two  or  three  yards  with- 
out parting  with  anything,  and  becomes  ungraceful  in  so 
doing. 

Hence  we  see  that  although  boughs  may,  and  must  be  rep- 
resented as  actually  tapering,  they  must  only  be  so  when 
they  are  sending  off  foliage  and  sprays,  and  when  they  are  at 
§  5.  The  degree  of  such  a  distance  that  the  particular  forks  and 

inarbe^represint^  divisioUS  CaUUOt  be  evident  to  the  eye  ;  and  far- 
ed as  continuous,  ther,  even  in  such  circumstances  the  tapering 
never  can  be  sudden  or  rapid.  No  bough  ever,  with  appear- 
ance of  smooth  tapering,  loses  more  than  one  tenth  of  its 
diameter  in  a  length  of  ten  diameters.  Any  greater  diminu- 
tion than  this  must  be  accounted  for  by  visible  ramification, 
and  must  take  place  by  steps,  at  each  fork. 

And  therefore  we  see  at  once  that  the  stem  of  Gaspar  Pous- 
sin's  tall  tree,  on  the  right  of  the  I^a  Riccia,  in  the  National 
Gallery,  is  a  painting  of  a  carrot  or  a  parsnip,  not  of  the 
§6.  The  trees  of  trunk  of  a  tree.  For,  being  so  near  that  every 
Gaspar  Poussin ;  individual  leaf  is  visible,  we  should  not  have  seen, 
in  nature,  one  branch  or  stem  actually  tapering.  We  should 
have  received  an  impression  of  graceful  diminution  ;  but  we 
should  have  been  able,  on  examination,  to  trace  it  joint  by 
joint,  fork  by  fork,  into  the  thousand  minor  supports  of  the 
leaves.  Gaspar  Poussin's  stem,  on  the  contrary,  only  sends 
off  four  or  five  minor  branches  altogether,  and  both  it  and 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


145 


they  taper  violently,  and  without  showing  why  or  wherefore 
— without  parting  with  a  single  twig — without  showing  one 
vestige  of  roughness  or  excrescence — and  leaving,  therefore, 
their  unfortunate  leaves  to  hold  on  as  best  they  may.  The 
latter,  however,  are  clever  leaves,  and  support  themselves  as 
swarming  bees  do,  hanging  on  by  each  other. 

But  even  this  piece  of  work  is  a  jest  to  the  perpetration 
of  the  bough  at  the  left-hand  upper  corner  of  the  picture 
opposite  to  it, — the  View  near  Albano.  This  latter  is  a  rep- 
§  7.  And  of  the  resentation  of  an  ornamental  group  of  ele- 
gfne?aDy,''de7  phauts'  tusks,  with  feathers  tied  to  the  ends  of 
this  law.  them.    Not  the  wildest  imagination  could  ever 

conjure  up  in  it  the  remotest  resemblance  to  the  bough  of  a 
tree.  It  might  be  the  claws  of  a  witch — the  talons  of  an 
eagle — the  horns  of  a  fiend  ;  but  it  is  a  full  assemblage  of 
every  conceivable  falsehood  which  can  be  told  respecting  foli- 
age— a  piece  of  work  so  barbarous  in  every  way,  that  one 
glance  at  it  ought  to  prove  the  complete  charlatanism  and 
trickery  of  the  whole  system  of  the  old  landscape  painters. 
For  I  will  depart  for  once  from  my  usual  plan,  of  abstaining 
from  all  assertion  of  a  thing's  being  beautiful  or  otherwise  ; 
I  will  say  here,  at  once,  that  such  drawing  as  this  is  as  ugly 
as  it  is  childish,  and  as  painful  as  it  is  false  ;  and  that  the 
man  who  could  tolerate,  much  more,  who  could  deliberately 
set  down  such  a  thing  on  his  canvas,  had  neither  eye  nor  feel- 
ing for  one  single  attribute  of  excellence  of  God's  works. 
He  might  have  drawn  the  other  stem  in  excusable  ignorance, 
or  under  some  false  impression  of  being  able  to  improve  upon 
nature  ;  but  this  is  conclusive  and  unpardonable.  Again, 
take  the  stem  of  the  chief  tree  in  Claude's  Narcissus.  It  is 
a  very  faithful  portrait  of  a  large  boa-constrictor,  with  a 
handsome  tail ;  the  kind  of  trunk  which  young  ladies  at  fash- 
ionable boarding-schools  represent  with  nosegays  at  the  top 
of  them,  by  way  of  forest  scenery. 

Let  us  refresh  ourselves  for  a  moment,  by  looking  at  the 
§  8   The  truth  need  not  go  to  Turner,  we  will  go 

as  it  is  given  by  to  the  man  who,  next  to  him,  is  unquestionably 

J.  D.  Harding.        .  '  ^  ^  . .      '    .     ^  ^  ^ 

the  greatest  master  of  foliage  m  Europe — J.  D, 
Vol  II.— 10 


146 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


Harding.  Take  the  trunk  of  the^  largest  stone-pine,  Plate 
25,  in  the  Park  and  the  Forest.  For  the  first  nine  or  ten 
feet  from  the  ground  it  does  not  lose  one  hairbreadth  of  its 
diameter.  But  the  shoot,  broken  off  just  under  the  crossing 
part  of  the  distant  tree,  is  followed  by  an  instant  diminu- 
tion of  the  trunk,  perfectly  appreciable  both  by  the  eye  and  the 
compasses.  Again,  the  stem  maintains  undiminished  thick- 
ness, up  to  the  two  shoots  on  the  left,  from  the  loss  of  which 
it  suffers  again  perceptibly.  On  the  right,  immediately 
above,  is  the  stump  of  a  very  large  bough,  whose  loss  re- 
duces the  trunk  suddenly  to  about  two-thirds  of  what  it  was 
at  the  root.  Diminished  again,  less  considerably,  by  the 
minor  branch  close  to  this  stump,  it  now  retains  its  diameter 
up  to  the  three  branches,  broken  off  just  under  the  head, 
where  it  once  more  loses  in  diameter,  and  finally  branches  into 
the  multitude  of  head-boughs,  of  which  not  one  will  be 
found  tapering  in  any  part,  but  losing  themselves  gradually 
by  division  among  their  offshoots  and  spray.  This  is  nature, 
and  beauty  too. 

But  the  old  masters  are  not  satisfied  with  drawing  carrots 
for  boughs.  Nature  can  be  violated  in  more  ways  than  one, 
and  the  industry  with  which  they  seek  out  and  adopt  every 

§  9.  Boughs,  in  conceivable  mode  of  contradicting  her  is  mat- 
consequence    of.  /»  n*x         J.       Tx*  'J^i? 

this  law,  must  ter  oi  no  Small  interest.  It  is  evident,  irom 
thTy'^'dVvTdl'!  what  we  have  above  stated  of  the  structure  of 
Those  of  the  old       trccs,  that  as  no  bouo-hs  diminish  where  they 

masters  often  do  '  »  ... 

not-  do  not  fork,  so  they  cannot  fork  without  dimin- 

ishing. It  is  impossible  that  the  smallest  shoot  can  be  sent 
out  of  a  bough  without  a  diminution  of  the  diameter  above  it ; 
g.nd  wherever  a  branch  goes  off  it  must  not  only  be  less  in 
diameter  than  the  bough  from  which  it  springs,  but  the  bough 
beyond  the  fork  must  be  less  by  precisely  the  quantity  of  the 
branch  it  has  sent  off.*    Now  observe  the  bough  underneath 

*  It  sometimes  happens  that  a  morbid  direction  of  growth  will  cause 
an  exception  here  and  there  to  this  rule,  the  bough  swelling  beyond  its 
legitimate  size  ;  knots  and  excrescences,  of  course,  sometimes  interfere 
with  the  effect  of  diminution.  I  believe  that  in  the  laurel,  when  it 
grows  large  and  old,  singular  instances  may  be  found  of  thick  upper 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


147 


the  first  bend  of  the  great  stem  in  Claude's  Narcissus  ;  it 
sends  off  four  branches  like  the  ribs  of  a  leaf.  The  two  low- 
est of  these  are  both  quite  as  thick  as  the  parent  stem,  and 
the  stem  itself  is  much  thicker  after  it  has  sent  off  the  first 
one  than  it  was  before.  The  top  boughs  of  the  central  tree, 
in  the  Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca,  ramify  in  the  same  sci- 
entific way. 

But  there  are  further  conclusions  to  be  drawn  from  this 
great  principle  in  trees.    As  they  only  diminish  where  they 
divide,  their  increase  of  number  is  in  precise  proportion  to 
their  diminution  of  size,  so  that  whenever  we 

§  10.  Boughs  must  .  .        \  ,  , 

multiply  as  they  come  to  the  extremities  ot  boughs,  we  must  have 

diminish.     Those  ,     ^       j>  ai   '      .  ^  i  -  j» 

of  the  old  masters  a  multitude  ot  sprays  sutticient  to  make  up,  it 
^*^"^**  they  were  united,  the  bulk  of  that  from  which 

they  spring.  Where  a  bough  divides  into  two  equal  ramifi- 
cations, the  diameter  of  each  of  the  two  is  about  two-thirds 
that  of  the  single  one,  and  the  sum*  of  their  diameters,  there- 
fore, one-fourth  greater  than  the  diameter  of  the  single  one. 
Hence,  if  no  boughs  died  or  were  lost,  the  quantity  of  wood 
in  the  sprays  would  appear  one-fourth  greater  than  would  be 
necessary  to  make  up  the  thickness  of  the  trunk.  But  the  lost 
boughs  remove  the  excess,  and  therefore,  speaking  broadly, 
the  diameters  of  the  outer  boughs  put  together  would  gen- 
erally just  make  up  the  diameter  of  the  trunk.  Precision  in 
representing  this  is  neither  desirable  nor  possible.  All  that 
is  required  is  just  so  much  observance  of  the  general  principle 
as  may  make  the  eye  feel  satisfied  that  there  is  something 
like  the  same  quantity  of  wood  in  the  sprays  which  there  is 
in  the  stem.  But  to  do  this,  there  must  be,  what  there  always 
is  in  nature,  an  exceeding  complexity  of  the  outer  sprays. 
This  complexity  gradually  increases  towards  their  extremities, 
of  course  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  slenderness  of  the  twigs. 
The  slenderer  they  become,  the  more  there  are  of  them,  until 
at  last,  at  the  extremities  of  the  tree,  they  form  a  mass  of  in- 

boughs  and  over  quantity  of  wood  at  the  extremities.  All  these  acci- 
dents or  exceptions  are  felt  as  such  by  the  eye.  They  may  occasionally 
be  used  by  the  painter  in  savage  or  grotesque  scenery,  or  as  points  of 
contrast,  but  are  no  excuse  for  his  ever  losing  sight  of  the  general  law. 


148 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


tricacy,  which  in  winter,  when  it  can  be  seen,  is  scarcely  dis' 
tinguishable  from  fine  herbage,  and  is  beyond  all  power  of 
definite  representation  ;  it  can  only  be  expressed  by  a  mass 
of  involved  strokes.  Also,  as  they  shoot  out  in  every  direc- 
tion, some  are  nearer,  some  more  distant  ;  some  distinct,  some 
faint  ;  and  their  intersections  and  relations  of  distance  are 
marked  with  the  most  exquisite  gradations  of  aerial  perspec- 
tive. Now  it  will  be  found  universally  in  the  works  of 
Claude,  Gaspar,  and  Salvator,  that  the  boughs  do  not  get  in 
the  least  complex  or  multiplied  towards  the  extremities — that 
each  large  limb  forks  only  into  two  or  three  smaller  ones,  each 
of  which  vanishes  into  the  air  without  any  cause  or  reason  for 
such  unaccountable  conduct — unless  that  the  mass  of  leaves 
transfixed  upon  it  or  tied  to  it,  entirely  dependent  on  its  sin- 
gle strength,  have  been  too  much,  as  well  they  may  be,  for 
its  powers  of  solitary  endurance.  This  total  ignorance  of  tree 
structure  is  shown  throughout  their  works.  The  Sinon  before 
Priam  is  an  instance  of  it  in  a  really  fine  work  of  Claude's, 
but  the  most  gross  examples  are  in  the  works  of  Salvator. 
§  11.  Bough-draw-  1^  appears  that  this  latter  artist  was  hardly  in 
ing  of  Salvator.     ^j^^  of  studying  from  nature  at  all  after 

his  boyish  ramble  among  the  Calabrian  hills  ;  and  I  do  not 
recollect  any  instance  of  a  piece  of  his  bough-drawing  which 
is  not  palpably  and  demonstrably  a  made-up  phantasm  of  the 
studio,  the  proof  derivable  from  this  illegitimate  tapering 
being  one  of  the  most  convincing.  The  painter  is  always  vis- 
ibly embarrassed  to  reduce  the  thick  boughs  to  spray,  and 
feeling  (for  Salvator  naturally  had  acute  feeling  for  truth) 
that  the  bough  was  wrong  when  it  tapered  suddenly,  he 
accomplishes  its  diminution  by  an  impossible  protraction  ; 
throwing  out  shoot  after  shoot  until  his  branches  straggle  all 
across  the  picture,  and  at  last  disappear  unwillingly  where 
there  is  no  room  for  them  to  stretch  any  farther.  The  con- 
sequence is,  that  whatever  leaves  are  put  upon  such  boughs 
have  evidently  no  adequate  support,  their  power  of  leverage 
is  enough  to  uproot  the  tree  ;  or  if  the  boughs  are  left  bare, 
they  have  the  look  of  the  long  tentacula  of  some  complicated 
marine  monster,  or  of  the  waving  endless  threads  of  bunchy 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


'l49 


sea-weed,  instead  of  the  fimi,  upholding,  braced,  and  bending 
grace  of  natural  boughs.  I  grant  that  this  is  in  a  measure 
done  by  Salvator  from  a  love  of  ghastliness,  and  that  in  cer- 
tain scenes  it  is  in  a  sort  allowable  ;  but  it  is  in  a  far  greater 
degree  done  from  pure  ignorance  of  tree  structure,  as  is  suf- 
ficiently proved  by  the  landscape  of  the  Pitti  palace,  Peace 
burning  the  arms  of  War ;  where  the  spirit  of  the  scene  is 
intended  to  be  quite  other  than  ghastly,  and  yet  the  tree 
branches  show  the  usual  errors  in  an  extraordinary  degree  ; 
every  one  of  their  arrangements  is  impossible,  and  the  trunk 
qf  the  tree  could  not  for  a  moment  support  the  foliage  it  is 
loaded  with.  So  also  in  the  pictures  of  the  Guadagni  palace. 
And  even  where  the  skeleton  look  of  branches  is  justifiable  or 
desirable,  there  is  no  occasion  for  any  violation  of  natural 
laws.  I  have  seen  more  spectral  character  in  the  real  limbs 
of  a  blasted  oak,  than  ever  in  Salvator's  best  monstrosities ; 
more  horror  is  to  be  obtained  by  right  combination  of  inven- 
tive line,  than  by  drawing  tree  branches  as  if  they  were  wing- 
bones  of  a  pterodactyle.  All  departure  from  natural  forms 
to  give  fearfulness  is  mere  Germanism  ;  it  is  the  work  of 
fancy,  not  of  imagination,*  and  instantly  degrades  whatever 
it  affects  to  third-rate  level.  There  is  nothing  more  marked 
in  truly  great  men,  than  their  power  of  being  dreadful  with- 
out being  false  or  licentious.  In  Tintoret's  Murder  of  Abel, 
the  head  of  the  sacrificed  firstling  lies  in  the  corner  of  the 
foreground,  obscurely  sketched  in,  and  with  the  light  gleam- 
ing upon  its  glazed  eyes.  There  is  nothing  exaggerated  about 
the  head,  but  there  is  more  horror  got  out  of  it,  and  more  of 
death  suggested  by  its  treatment,  than  if  he  had  turned  all 
the  trees  of  his  picture  into  skeletons,  and  raised  a  host  of 
demons  to  drive  the  club. 

It  is  curious  that  in  Salvator's  sketches  or 

§  12.  All  these 

errors   especially  etchino^s  there  is  less  that  is  wrons'  than  in  his 

shown  in  Claude's        .      .  e  ^ 

sketches,  and  paintings, — there  seems  a  fresher  remembrance 
work  of  G.  Pous-  of  nature  about  them.  Not  so  with  Claude.  It 
^  ^*  is  only  by  looking  over  his  sketches,  in  the  Brit- 


*  Compare  Part  III.  Sect.  II.  Chap.  IV.  §  6,  7. 


150 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


ish  Museum,  that  a  complete  and  just  idea  is  to  be  formed  of  his 
capacities  of  error  ;  for  the  feeling  and  arrangement  of  many 
of  them  are  those  of  an  advanced  age,  so  that  we  can  scarcely 
set  them  down  for  what  they  resemble — the  work  of  a  boy  ten 
years  old  ;  and  the  drawing  being  seen  without  any  aids  of 
tone  or  color  to  set  it  off,  shows  in  its  naked  falsehood.  The 
windy  landscape  of  Poussin,  opposite  the  Dido  and  -^neas, 
in  the  National  Gallery,  presents  us,  in  the  foreground  tree, 
with  a  piece  of  atrocity  which  I  think,  to  any  person  who 
candidly  considers  it,  may  save  me  all  farther  trouble  of  dem- 
onstrating the  errors  of  ancient  art.  I  do  not  in  the  least 
suspect  the  picture  :  the  tones  of  it,  and  much  of  the  handling, 
are  masterly  ;  yet  that  foreground  tree  comprises  every  con- 
ceivable violation  of  truth  which  the  human  hand  can  commit, 
or  head  invent,  in  drawing  a  tree — except  only,  that  it  is  not 
drawn  root  uppermost.  It  has  no  bark,  no  roughness  nor 
character  of  stem  ;  its  boughs  do  not  grow  out  of  each  other, 
but  are  stuck  into  each  other  ;  they  ramify  without  diminish- 
ing, diminish  without  ramifying,  are  terminated  by  no  com- 
plicated sprays,  have  their  leaves  tied  to  their  ends,  like  the 
heads  of  Dutch  brooms  ;  and  finally,  and  chiefly,  they  are 
evidently  not  made  of  wood,  but  of  some  soft  elastic  sub- 
stance, which  the  wind  can  stretch  out  as  it  pleases,  for  there 
is  not  a  vestige  of  an  angle  in  any  one  of  them.  Now,  the 
13  I  bit  ^^^^^^^  wind  that  ever  blew  upon  the  earth, 
of  the  angles  of  could  not  take  the  angles  out  of  the  bough  of  a 
en"out''of^themby  tree  an  iuch  thick.  The  whole  bough  bends 
together,  retaining  its  elbows,  and  angles,  and 
natural  form,  but  affected  throughout  with  curvature  in  each 
of  its  parts  and  joints.  That  part  of  it  which  was  before 
perpendicular  being  bent  aside,  and  that  which  was  before 
sloping,  being  bent  into  still  greater  inclination,  the  angle  at 
which  the  two  parts  meet  remains  the  same  ;  or  if  the  strain 
be  put  in  the  opposite  direction,  the  bough  will  break  long 
before  it  loses  its  angle.  You  will  find  it  difficult  to  bend  the 
angles  out  of  the  youngest  sapling,  if  they  be  marked  ;  and 
absolutely  impossible,  with  a  strong  bough.  You  may  break 
it,  but  you  will  not  destroy  its  angles.    And  if  you  watch  a 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


151 


tree  in  the  wildest  storm,  you  will  find  that  though  all  its 
boughs  are  bending,  none  lose  their  character  but  the  utmost 
shoots  and  sapling  spray.  Hence  Gaspar  Poussin,  by  his  bad 
drawing,  does  not  make  his  storm  strong,  but  his  tree  weak  ; 
he  does  not  make  his  gust  violent,  but  his  boughs  of  India- 
rubber. 

These  laws  respecting  vegetation  are  so  far  more  impera- 
tive than  those  which  were  stated  respecting  water,  that  the 
greatest  artist  cannot  violate  them  without  danger,  because 
§  14.  Bough-draw-  they  are  laws  resulting  from  organic  structure, 
ing  of  Titian.  which  it  is  always  painful  to  see  interrupted  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  they  have  this  in  common  with  all  laws, 
that  they  may  be  observed  with  mathematical  precision,  yet 
with  no  grateful  result  ;  the  disciplined  eye  and  the  life  in  the 
woods  are  worth  more  than  all  botanical  knowledge.  For 
there  is  that  about  the  growing  of  the  tree  trunk,  and  that 
grace  in  its  upper  ramification  which  cannot  be  taught,  and 
which  cannot  even  be  seen  but  by  eager  watchfulness.  There 
is  not  an  Exhibition  passes,  but  there  appear  in  it  hundreds 
of  elaborate  paintings  of  trees,  many  of  them  executed  from 
nature.  For  three  hundred  years  back,  trees  have  been  drawn 
with  affection  by  all  the  civilized  nations  of  Europe,  and  yet 
I  repeat  boldly,  what  I  before  asserted,  that  no  men  but  Ti- 
tian and  Turner  ever  drew  the  stem  of  a  tree. 

Generally,  I  think,  the  perception  of  the  muscular  qualities 
of  the  tree  trunk  incomplete,  except  in  men  who  have  studied 
the  human  figure,  and  in  loose  expression  of  those  characters, 
the  painter  who  can  draw  the  living  muscle  seldom  fails  ;  but 
the  thoroughly  peculiar  lines  belonging  to  woody  fibre,  can 
only  be  learned  by  patient  forest  study  ;  and  hence  in  all  the 
trees  of  the  merely  historical  painters,  there  is  fault  of  some 
kind  or  another,  commonly  exaggeration  of  the  muscular 
swellings,  or  insipidity  and  want  of  spring  in  curvature,  or 
fantasticism  and  unnaturalness  of  arrangement,  and  especially 
a  want  of  the  peculiar  characters  of  bark  which  express  the 
growth  and  age  of  the  tree  ;  for  bark  is  no  mere  excrescence, 
lifeless  and  external — it  is  a  skin  of  especial  significance  in 
its  indications  of  the  organic  form  beneath  ;  in  places  under 


152 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


the  arms  of  the  tree  it  wrinkles  up  and  forms  fine  lines  round 
the  trunk,  inestimable  in  their  indication  of  the  direction  of 
its  surface  ;  in  others,  it  bursts  or  peels  longitudinally,  and 
the  rending  and  bursting  of  it  are  influenced  in  direction  and 
degree  by  the  under-growth  and  swelling  of  the  woody  fibre, 
and  are  not  a  mere  roughness  and  granulated  pattern  of  the 
hide.  Where  there  are  so  many  points  to  be  observed,  some 
are  almost  always  exaggerated,  and  others  missed,  according 
to  the  predilections  of  the  painter.  Rembrandt  and  Albert 
Durer  have  given  some  splendid  examples  of  woody  texture, 
but  both  miss  the  grace  of  the  great  lines.  Titian  took  a 
larger  view  and  reached  a  higher  truth,  yet  (as  before  no- 
ticed) from  the  habit  of  drawing  the  figure,  he  admits  too 
much  flaccidity  and  bend,  and  sometimes  makes  his  tree  trunks 
look  flexible  like  sea-weed.  There  is  a  peculiar  stiffness  and 
spring  about  the  curves  of  the  wood,  which  separates  them 
completely  from  animal  curves,  and  which  especially  defies 
recollection  or  invention  ;  it  is  so  subtile  that  it  escapes  but 
too  often,  even  in  the  most  patient  study  from  nature  ;  it  lies 
within  the  thickness  of  a  pencil  line.  Farther,  the  modes  of 
ramification  of  the  upper  branches  are  so  varied,  inventive, 
and  graceful,  that  the  least  alteration  of  them,  even  in  the 
measure  of  a  hair-breadth,  spoils  them  ;  and  though  it  is 
sometimes  possible  to  get  rid  of  a  troublesome  bough,  acci- 
dentally awkward,  or  in  some  minor  respects  to  assist  the 
arrangement,  yet  so  far  as  the  real  branches  are  copied,  the 
hand  libels  their  lovely  curvatures  even  in  its  best  attempts 
to  follow  them. 

These  two  characters,  the  woody  stiffness  hinted  through 
muscular  line,  and  the  inventive  grace  of  the  upper  boughs, 
have  never  been  rendered  except  by  Turner  ;  he  does  not 
§  15.  Bough-draw-  ^i^i^ely  draw  them  better  than  others,  but  he  is 
ing  of  Turner.  -^j^^  Only  man  who  has  ever  drawn  them  at  all. 
Of  the  woody  character,  the  tree  subjects  of  the  Liber  Studi- 
orum  afford  marked  examples  ;  the  Cephalus  and  Procris, 
scenes  near  the  Grand  Chartreuse  and  Blair  Athol,  Juvenile 
Tricks,  and  Hedging  and  Ditching,  may  be  particularized  ; 
in  the  England  series,  the  Bolton  Abbey  is  perhaps  a  more 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


153 


characteristic  and  thoroughly  Turneresque  example  than 
any. 

Of  the  arrangement  of  the  upper  boughs,  the  ^sacus  and 
Hesperie  is  perhaps  the  most  consummate  example,  the  ab- 
solute truth  and  simplicity  and  freedom  from  anything  like 
fantasticism  or  animal  form  being  as  marked  on  the  one  hand, 
as  the  exquisite  imaginativeness  of  the  lines  on  the  other  : 
among  the  Yorkshire  subjects  the  Aske  Hall,  Kirby  Lonsdale 
Churchyard,  and  Brignall  Church  are  most  characteristic  : 
among  the  England  subjects  the  Warwick,  Dartmouth  Cove, 
Durham,  and  Chain  Bridge  over  the  Tees,  where  the  piece 
of  thicket  on  the  right  has  been  well  rendered  by  the  en- 
graver, and  is  peculiarly  expressive  of  the  aerial  relations  and 
play  of  light  among  complex  boughs.  The  vignette  at  the 
opening  of  Rogers's  Pleasures  of  Memory,  that  of  Chiefswood 
Cottage  in  the  Illustrations  to  Scott's  Works,  and  the  Chateau 
de  la  belle  Gabrielle,  engraved  for  the  Keepsake,  are  among 
the  most  graceful  examples  accessible  to  every  one  ;  the 
Crossing  the  Brook  wdll  occur  at  once  to  those  acquainted 
with  the  artist's  gallery.  The  drawing  of  the  stems  in  all 
these  instances,  and  indeed  in  all  the  various  and  frequent 
minor  occurrences  of  such  subject  throughout  the  painter's 
works  is  entirely  unique,  there  is  nothing  of  the  same  kind 
in  art. 

Let  us,  however,  pass  to  the  leafage  of  the  elder  landscape 
painters,  and  see  if  it  atones  for  the  deficiencies 
variety  and  sym-  of  the  stems.  One  of  the  most  remarkable 
characters  of  natural  leafage  is  the  constancy 
with  which,  while  the  leaves  are  arranged  on  the  spray  with 
exquisite  regularity,  that  regularity  is  modified  in  their  actual 
effect.  For  as  in  every  group  of  leaves  some  are  seen  side- 
ways, forming  merely  long  lines,  some  foreshortened,  some 
crossing  each  other,  every  one  differently  turned  and  placed 
from  all  the  others,  the  forms  of  the  leaves,  though  in  them- 
selves similar,  give  rise  to  a  thousand  strange  and  differing 
forms  in  the  group  ;  and  the  shadows  of  some,  passing  over 
the  others,  still  farther  disguise  and  confuse  the  mass,  until 
the  eye  can  distinguish  nothing  but  a  graceful  and  flexible 


154  OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


disorder  of  innumerable  forms,  with  here  and  there  a  perfect 
leaf  on  the  extremity,  or  a  symmetrical  association  of  one  or 
two,  just  enough  to  mark  the  specific  character  and  to  give 
unity  and  grace,  bi^t  never  enough  to  repeat  in  one  group 
what  was  done  in  another — never  enough  to  prevent  the  eye 
from  feeling  that,  however  regular  and  mathematical  may  be 
the  structure  of  parts,  what  is  composed  out  of  them  is  as 
various  and  infinite  as  any  other  part  of  nature.  Nor  does 
this  take  place  in  general  effect  only.  Break  off  an  elm 
bough,  three  feet  long,  in  full  leaf,  and  lay  it  on  the  table 
before  you,  and  try  to  draw  it,  leaf  for  leaf.  It  is  ten  to  one 
if  in  the  whole  bough,  (provided  you  do  not  twist  it  about 
as  you  work,)  you  find  one  form  of  a  leaf  exactly  like  an- 
other ;  perhaps  you  will  not  even  have  one  complete.  Every 
leaf  will  be  oblique,  or  foreshortened,  or  curled,  or  crossed 
by  another,  or  shaded  by  another,  or  have  something  or  other 
the  matter  with  it  ;  and  though  the  whole  bough  will  look 
graceful  and  symmetrical,  you  will  scarcely  be  able  to  tell 
how  or  why  it  does  so,  since  there  is  not  one  line  of  it  like 
another.    Now  2:0  to  Gaspar  Poussin,  and  take 

§  17  Perfect  reg-  .  . 

ularity  of  Pous-  ouc  of  his  sprays  where  they  come  against  the 
sky  ;  you  may  count  it  all  round,  one,  two, 
three,  four,  one  bunch  ;  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  two  bunches  ; 
nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve,  three  bunches  ;  with  four  leaves 
each, — and  such  leaves  !  every  one  precisely  the  same  as  its 
neighbor,  blunt  and  round  at  the  end,  (where  every  forest 
leaf  is  sharp,  except  that  of  the  fig-tree,)  tied  together  by  the 
roots,  and  so  fastened  on  to  the  demoniacal  claws  above  de- 
scribed, one  bunch  to  each  claw. 

But  if  nature  is  so  various  when  you  have  a  bough  on  the 
table  before  you,  what  must  she  be  when  she  retires  from 
you,  and  gives  you  her  whole  mass  and  multitude  ?  The 
leaves  then  at  the  extremities  become  as  fine  as  dust,  a  mere 
confusion  of  points  and  lines  between  you  and 
tdoa^^S^nature^s  the  sky,  a  confusion  which  you  might  as  well 
foliage.  hope  to  draw  sea-sand  particle  by  particle,  as  to 

imitate  leaf  for  leaf.  This,  as  it  comes  down  into  the  body 
of  the  tree,  gets  closer,  but  never  opaque ;  it  is  always  trans- 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


155 


parent,  with  crumbling  lights  in  it  letting  you  through  to 
the  sky  ;  then,  out  of  this,  come,  heavier  and  heavier,  the 
masses  of  illumined  foliage,  all  dazzling  and  inextricable,  save 
here  and  there  a  single  leaf  on  the  extremities  ;  then,  under 
these,  you  get  deep  passages  of  broken,  irregular  gloom, 
passing  into  transparent,  green-lighted^  misty  hollow^s  ;  the 
twisted  stems  glancing  through  them  in  their  pale  and  en- 
tangled infinity,  and  the  shafted  sunbeams,  rained  from  above, 
running  along  the  lustrous  leaves  for  an  instant  ;  then  lost, 
then  caught  again  on  some  emerald  bank  or  knotted  root,  'to 
be  sent  up  again  with  a  faint  reflex  on  the  white  under-sides 
of  dim  groups  of  drooping  foliage,  the  shadows  of  the  upper 
boughs  running  in  gray  network  down  the  glossy  stems,  and 
resting  in  quiet  checkers  upon  the  glittering  earth  ;  but  all 
penetrable  and  transparent,  and,  in  proportion,  inextricable 
and  incomprehensible,  except  where  across  the  labyrinth  and 
the  mystery  of  the  dazzling  light  and  dream-like  shadow,  falls, 
close  to  us,  some  solitary  spray,  some  w^reath  of  two  or  three 
motionless  large-  leaves,  the  type  and  embodying  of  all  that 
in  the  rest  we  feel  and  imagine,  but  can  never  see. 

Now,  with  thus  much  of  nature  in  your  mind,  go  to  Gaspar 
Poussin's  View  near  Albano,  in  the  National  Gallery.  It  is 
^  the  very  subject  to  unite  all  these  effects, — a  sloping  bank 
§  19.  How  con-  shaded  with  intertwined  forest  ; — and  what  has 
See^-^pattems  *of  Gr^-spar  givcu  US  ?  A  mass  of  smooth,  opaque, 
G.  Poussin.  varnished  brown,  without  one  interstice,  one 
change  o^  hue,  or  any  vestige  of  leafy  structure  in  its  inte- 
rior, or  in  those  parts  of  it,  I  should  say,  which  are  intended 
to  represent  interior  ;  but  out  of  it,  over  it  rather,  at  regular 
intervals,  we  have  circular  groups  of  greenish  touches,  al- 
ways the  same  in  size,  shape,  and  distance  from  each  other, 
containing  so  exactly  the  same  number  of  touches  each,  that 
you  cannot  tell  one  from  another.  There  are  eight  or  nine 
and  thirty  of  them,  laid  over  each  other  like  fish-scales  ;  the 
shade  being  most  carefully  made  darker  and  darker  as  it  re- 
cedes from  each  until  it  comes  to  the  edsre  of  the  next,  ae-ainst 
which  it  cuts  in  the  same  sharp  circular  line,  and  then  begins 
to  decline  again,  until  the  canvas  is  covered,  with  about  as 


156 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION'. 


much  intelligence  or  feeling  of  art  as  a  house-painter  has  in 
marbling  a  wainscot,  or  a  weaver  in  repeating  an  ornamental 
pattern.  What  is  there  in  this,  which  the  most  determined 
prejudice  in  favor  of  the  old  masters  can  for  a  moment  sup- 
pose to  resemble  trees  ?  It  is  exactly  what  the  most  igno- 
rant beginner,  trying  to  make  a  complete  drawing,  w^ould  lay 
down, — exactly  the  conception  of  trees  which  we  have  in  the 
works  of  our  worst  drawing-masters,  where  the  shade  is  laid 
on  with  the  black-lead  and  stump,  and  every  human  power 
exerted  to  make  it  look  like  a  kitchen-grate  well  polished. 

Oppose  to  this  the  drawing  even  of  our  somewhat  inferior 
tree-painters.  I  will  not  insult  Harding  by  mentioning  his 
work  after  it,  but  take  Creswick,  for  instance,  and  match  one 
§  20    How  foi  sparkling  bits  of  green  leafage  with  this 

lowed  by  Ores-  tree -pattern  of  Poussin's.    I  do  not  say  there 

wick.  .  T      .  ,    .  .  ,  , 

IS  not  a  dignity  and  impressiveness  about  the 
old  landscape,  owing  to  its  simplicity  ;  and  I  am  very  far 
from  calling  Creswick's  good  tree-painting  ;  it  is  false  in 
color  and  deficient  in  mass  and  freedom,  and  has  many  other 
defects,  but  it  is  the  work  of  a  man  who  has  sought  earnestly 
for  truth  ;  and  who,  with  one  thought  or  memory  of  nature 
in  his  heart,  could  look  at  the  two  landscapes,  and  receive 
Foussin's  with  ordinary  patience  ?  Take  Creswick  in  black 
and  white,  where  he  is  unembarrassed  by  his  fondness  for 
pea-green,  the  illustrations,  for  instance,  to  the  Nut-brown 
Maid,  in  the  Book  of  English  Ballads.  Look  at  the  intricacy 
and  fulness  of  the  dark  oak  foliage  where  it  bends  over  the 
brook,  see  how  you  can  go  through  it,  and  into  it,  and  come 
out  behind  it  to  the  quiet  bit  of  sky.  Observe  the  gray, 
aerial  transparency  of  the  stunted  copse  on  the  left,  and  the 
entangling  of  the  boughs  where  the  light  near  foliage  de- 
taches itself.  Above  all,  note  the  forms  of  the  masses  of 
light.  Not  things  like  scales  or  shells,  sharp  at  the  edge  and 
flat  in  the  middle,  but  irregular  and  rounded,  stealing  in  and 
out  accidently  from  the  shadow,  and  presenting,  as  the 
masses  of  all  trees  do,  in  general  outline,  a  resemblance  to 
the  specific  forms  of  the  leaves  of  which  they  are  composed. 
Turn  over  the  page,  and  look  into  the  weaving  of  the  foliage 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


157 


and  sprays  against  the  dark  night-sky,  how  near  they  are, 
yet  how  untraceable  ;  see  how  the  moonlight  creeps  up  un- 
derneath them,  trembling  and  shivering  on  the  silver  boughs 
above  ;  note  also,  the  descending  bit  of  ivy  on  the  left,  of 
which  only  two  leaves  are  made  out,  and  the  rest  is  confu- 
sion, or  tells  only  in  the  moonlight  like  faint  flakes  of  snow. 

But  nature  observes  another  principle  in  her  foliage  more 
important  even  than  its  intricacy.  She  always  secures  an  ex- 
ceeding harmony  and  repose.  She  is  so  intricate  that  her 
minuteness  of  parts  becomes  to  the  eye,  at  a 
l^si.^Perfectuni-  distance,  one  united  veil  or  cloud  of  leaves, 

foUage.  destroy  the  evenness  of  which  is  perhaps  a 

greater  fault  than  to  destroy  its  transparency.  Look  at 
Creswick's  oak  again,  in  its  dark  parts.  Intricate  as  it  is, 
all  is  blended  into  a  cloud-like  harmony  of  shade,  which  be- 
comes fainter  and  fainter,  as  it  retires,  with  the  most  deli- 
cate flatness  and  unity  of  tone.  And  it  is  by  this  kind  of 
vaporescence,  so  to  speak,  by  this  flat,  misty,  unison  of  parts, 
that  nature,  and  her  faithful  followers,  are  enabled  to  keep 
the  eye  in  perfect  repose  in  the  midst  of  profusion,  and  to 
display  beauty  of  form,  wherever  they  choose,  to  the  great- 
est possible  advantage,  by  throwing  it  across  some  quiet, 
visionary  passage  of  dimness  and  rest. 

It  is  here  that  Hobbima  and  Both  fail.  They  can  paint 
oak  leafage  faithfully,  but  do  not  know  where  to  stop,  and 
by  doing  too  much,  lose  the  truth  of  all, — lose  the  very  truth 
of  detail  at  which  they  aim.  for  all  their  minute 

§  22.  Total  want  -,         i        .  ^  •> 

of  it  in  Both  and  work  Only  gives  two  Icavcs  to  nature  s  twenty. 

They  are  evidently  incapable  of  even  thinking 
of  a  tree,  much  more  of  drawing  it,  except  leaf  by  leaf  ;  they 
have  no  notion  nor  sense  of  simplicity,  mass,  or  obscurity, 
and  when  they  come  to  distance,  where  it  is  totally  impossi- 
ble that  leaves  should  be  separately  seen,  yet,  being  incapa- 
ble of  conceiving  or  rendering  the  grand  and  quiet  forms  of 
truth,  they  are  reduced  to  paint  their  bushes  with  dots  and 
touches  expressive  of  leaves  three  feet  broad  each.  Never- 
theless there  is  a  genuine  aim  in  their  works,  and  their  fail- 
ure is  rather  to  be  attributed  to  ignorance  of  art,  than  to 


158 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


such  want  of  sense  for  nature  as  we  find  in  Claude  or  Poussin  ; 
and  when  they  come  close  home,  we  sometimes  receive  from 
them  fine  passages  of  mechanical  truth. 

But  let  us  oppose  to  their  works  the  group  of  trees  on  the 
left  in  Turner's  Marly.^  We  have  there  perfect  and  cease- 
less intricacy  to  oppose  to  Poussin, — perfect  and  unbroken 
§  23.  How  ren-  repose  to  oppose  to  Hobbima  ;  and  in  the  unity 
dered  by  Turner,  ^^^^^  ^-^e  perfection  of  truth.  This  group 
may  be  taken  as  a  fair  standard  of  Turner's  tree-painting. 
We  have  in  it  the  admirably  drawn  stems,  instead  of  the 
claws  or  the  serpents  ;  full,-  transparent,  boundless  intricacy, 
instead  of  the  shell  pattern  ;  and  misty  depth  of  intermin- 
gled light  and  leafage,  instead  of  perpetual  repetition  of  one 
mechanical  touch. 

I  have  already  spoken  (Section  II.  Chapter  lY.  §  15,)  of 
the  way  in  which  mystery  and  intricacy  are  carried  even  into 
the  nearest  leaves  of  the  foreground,  and  noticed  the  want  of 
„  ^.  such  intricacy  even  in  the  best  works  of  the  old 

§  24.    The  near 

leafage   of  mastcrs.    Claudc's  are  particularly  deficient,  for 

Claude.  Hismid-  .  •      i      i  /.  i 

die  distances  are  by  representing  every  particular  leaf  of  them,  or 
trying  to  do  so,  he  makes  nature  finite,  and  even 
his  nearest  bits  of  leafage  are  utterly  false,  for  they  have 
neither  shadows  modifying  their  form,  (compare  Section  II. 
Chapter  III.  §  7,)  nor  sparkling  lights,  nor  confused  intersec- 
tions of  their  own  forms  and  lines  ;  and  the  perpetual  repe- 
tition of  the  same  shape  of  leaves  and  the  same  arrangement, 
relieved  from  a  black  ground,  is  more  like  an  ornamental  pat- 
tern for  dress  than  the  painting  of  a  foreground.  Never- 
theless, the  foliage  of  Claude,  in  his  middle  distances,  is  the 
finest  and  truest  part  of  his  pictures,  and,  on  the  whole,  af- 
fords the  best  example  of  good  drawing  to  be  found  in  an- 
cient art.  It  is  always  false  in  color,  and  has  not  boughs 
enough  amongst  it,  and  the  stems  commonly  look  a  great 
deal  nearer  than  any  part  of  it,  but  it  is  still  graceful,  flex- 

*  This  group  I  have  before  noticed  as  singularly  (but,  I  doubt  not, 
accidentally,  and  in  consequence  of  the  love  of  the  two  great  painters 
for  the  same  grand  forms)  resembling  that  introduced  by  Tintoret  in 
the  background  of  his  Cain  and  Abel. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION 


159 


ible,  abundant,  intricate  ;  and,  in  all  but  color  and  connec- 
tion with  stems,  very  nearly  right.  Of  the  perfect  painting 
of  thick,  leafy  foreground,  Turner's  Mercury  and  Argus,  and 
Oakhainpton,  are  the  standards.^ 

The  last  and  most  important  truth  to  be  observed  respect- 
ing trees,  is  that  their  boughs  alvi^ays,  in  finely  grown  indi- 
viduals, bear  among  themselves  such  a  ratio  of  length  as  to 
§  25.  Universal  describe  with  their  extremities  a  symmetrical 
treS^^n^symmei^  curve,  Constant  for  each  species  ;  and  within 
ncai  curves.  ^j^-g  (jupve  all  the  irregularities,  segments,  and 
divisions  of  the  tree  are  included,  each  bough  reaching  the 
limit  with  its  extremity,  but  not  passing  it.  When  a  tree  is 
perfectly  grown,  each  bough  starts  from  the  trunk  with  just 
so  much  wood  as,  allowing  for  constant  ramification,  will 
enable  it  to  reach  the  terminal  line  ;  or  if  by  mistake,  it  start 
with  too  little,  it  will  proceed  without  ramifying  till  within  a 
distance  where  it  may  safely  divide  ;  if  on  the  contrary  it 

*  The  above  paragraphs  I  have  left  as  originally  written,  because  they 
are  quite  true  as  far  as  they  reach  ;  but  like  many  other  portions  of 
this  essay,  they  take  in  a  very  8mall  portion  of  the  truth.  I  shall  not 
add  to  them  at  present,  because  I  can  explain  my  meaning  better  in 
our  consideration  of  the  laws  of  beauty ;  but  the  reader  must  bear  in 
mind  that  what  :'s  above  stated  refers,  throughout,  to  large  masses  of 
foliage  seen  under  broad  sunshine, — and  it  has  especial  reference  to 
Turner's  enormous  scale  of  scene,  and  intense  desire  of  light.  In  twi- 
light, when  tree-forms  are  seen  against  sky,  other  laws  come  into  operr.- 
tion,  as  well  as  in  subject  of  narrow  limits  and  near  foreground.  It  is, 
I  think,  to  be  regretted  that  Turner  does  not  in  his  Academy  pictures 
sometimes  take  more  confined  and  gloomy  subjects,  like  that  grand  one, 
near  the  Chartreuse,  of  the  Liber  Studiorum,  wherein  his  magnificent 
power  of  elaborating  close  foliage  might  be  developed ;  but,  for  the 
present,  let  the  reader,  with  respect  to  what  has  been  here  said  of  close 
foliage,  note  the  drawing  of  the  leaves  in  that  plate,  in  the  ^sacus  and 
Hesperie,  and  the  Cephalus,  and  the  elaboration  of  the  foregrounds  in  the 
Yorkshire  drawings;  let  him  compare  what  is  said  of  Turner's  foliage 
painting  above  in  Part  II.  Sect.  I.  Chap.  VII.  g  40,  §  41,  and  of  Titian's 
previously,  as  well  as  Part  III.  Sect.  I.  Chap.  VIIL,  and  Sect.  II.  Chap. 
IV.  g  21.  I  shall  hereafter  endeavor  to  arrange  the  subject  in  a  more 
systematic  manner ;  but  what  additional  observations  I  may  have  to 
make  will  none  of  them  be  in  any  wise  more  favorable  to  Gaspar,  Sal- 
va-t-QT'  oi:  Hobbima,  than  the  above  paragraphs. 


160 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


start  with  too  much,  it  will  ramify  quickly  and  constantly  ; 
or,  to  express  the  real  operation  more  accurately,  each  bough, 
growing  on  so  as  to  keep  even  with  its  neighbors,  takes  so 
much  wood  from  the  trunk  as  is  sufficient  to  enable  it  to  do 
so,  more  or  less  in  proportion  as  it  ramifies  fast  or  slowly.  In 
badly  grown  trees,  the  boughs  are  apt  to  fall  short  of  the 
curve,  or  at  least,  there  are  so  many  jags  and  openings  that 
its  symmetry  is  interrupted  ;  and  in  young  trees,  the  im- 
patience of  the  upper  shoots  frequently  breaks  the  line  ;  but 
in  perfect  and  mature  trees,  every  bough  does  its  duty  com- 
pletely, and  the  line  of  curve  is  quite  filled  up,  and  the  mass 
within  it  unbroken,  so  that  the  tree  assumes  the  shape  of  a 
dome,  as  in  the  oak,  or,  in  tall  trees,  of  a  pear,  with  the  stalk 
§  26  Altogether  ^^^wnmost.  The  old  masters  paid  no  attention 
unobserved  by  whatsoever  to this  s^reat  principle.    They  swing: 

the  old  masters.      i     .    i  i        i  \ 

Always  given  by  their  boughs  about,  anywhere  and  everywhere  ; 

each  stops  or  goes  on  just  as  it  likes,  nor  will  it 
be  possible,  in  any  of  their  works,  to  find  a  single  example 
in  which  any  symmetrical  curve  is  indicated  by  the  extremi- 
ties.* 

But  I  need  scarcely  tell  any  one  in  the  slightest  degree  ac- 
quainted with  the  works  of  Turner,  how  rigidly  and  con- 
stantly he  adheres  to  this  principle  of  nature  ;  taking  in  his 
highest  compositions  the  perfect  ideal  form,  every  spray  be- 
ing graceful  and  varied  in  itself,  but  inevitably  terminating 
at  the  assigned  limit,  and  filling  up  the  curve  without  break 
or  gap  ;  in  his  lower  works,  taking  less  perfect  form,  but  in- 
variably hinting  the  constant  tendency  in  all,  and  thus,  in 

*  Perhaps  in  some  instances,  this  may  be  the  case  with  the  trees  of 
Nicholas  Poussin  ;  but  even  with  him  the  boughs  only  touch  the  line  of 
limit  with  their  central  points  of  extremity,  and  are  not  sectors  of  the 
great  curve — forming  a  part  of  it  with  expanded  extremities,  as  in  nature. 
Draw  a  few  straight  lines,  from  the  centre  to  the  circumference  of  a 
circle.  The  forms  included  between  them  are  the  forms  of  the  individ- 
ual boughs  of  a  fine  tree,  with  all  their  ramifications  (only  the  external 
curve  is  not  a  circle,  but  more  frequently  two  parabolas — which,  I  be- 
lieve, it  is  in  the  oak — or  an  ellipse).  But  each  bough  of  the  old  masters 
is  club-shaped,  and  broadest,  not  at  the  outside  of  the  tree,  but  a  little 
way  towards  its  centre. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION.  161 

spite  of  his  abundant  complexity,  he  arranges  his  trees  under 
simpler  and  grander  forms  than  any  other  artist,  even  among 
the  moderns. 

It  was  above  asserted  that  J.  D.  Harding  is,  after  Turner, 
the  greatest  master  of  foliage  in  Europe  ;  I  ought,  however, 
to  state  that  my  knowledge  of  the  modern  landscape  of  Ger- 
§  27  Foliage  ^^^^J  ^^^Y  limited,  and  that,  even  with  respect 
painting  on  the  to  France  and  Italy,  I  judge  rather  from  the 
general  tendency  of  study  and  character  of  mind 
visible  in  the  annual  Exhibition  of  the  Louvre,  and  in  some 
galleries  of  modern  paintings  at  Milan,  Venice,  and  Florence, 
than  from  any  detailed  acquaintance  with  the  works  of  their 
celebrated  painters.  Yet  I  think  I  can  hardly  be  mistaken. 
I  have  seen  nothing  to  induce  me  to  take  a  closer  survey  ;  no 
life  know^ledge  or  emotion  in  any  quarter  ;  nothing  but  the 
meanest  and  most  ignorant  copyism  of  vulgar  details,  coupled 
with  a  style  of  conception  resembling  that  of  the  various  litho- 
graphic ideals  on  the  first  leaves  of  the  music  of  pastoral  bal- 
lads. An  exception  ought,  however,  to  be  made  in  favor  of 
French  etching  ;  some  studies  in  black  and  white  may  be  seen 
in  the  narrow  passages  of  the  Louvre  of  very  high  merit,  show- 
ing great  skill  and  delicacy  of  execution,  and  most  determined 
industry  ;  (in  fact,  I  think  when  the  French  artist  fails,  it  is 
never  through  fear  of  labor  ;)  nay,  more  than  this,  some  of 
them  exhibit  acute  perception  of  landscape  character  and 
great  power  of  reaching  simple  impressions  of  gloom,  wild- 
ness,  sound,  and  motion.  Some  of  their  illustrated  works  also 
exhibit  these  powers  in  a  high  degree  ;  there  is  a  spirit,  fire, 
and  sense  of  reality  about  some  of  the  wood-cuts  to  the  large 
edition  of  Paul  and  Virginia,  and  a  determined  rendering  of 
separate  feeling  in  each,  such  as  we  look  for  in  vain  in  our 
own  ornamental  works.*  But  the  French  appear  to  have  no 
teaching  such  as  might  carry  them  beyond  this  ;  their  entire 
ignorance  of  color  renders  the  assumption  of  the  brush  in- 
stantly fatal,  and  the  false,  forced,  and  impious  sentiment  of 

*  On  the  other  hand,  nothing  can  be  more  exquisitely  ridiculous  than 
the  French  illustrations  of  a  second  or  third-rate  order,  as  those  to  the 
Harmonies  of  Lamartine. 
Vol.  II.— 11 


162 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


the  nation  renders  anything  like  grand  composition  altogether 
impossible. 

It  is  therefore  only  among  good  artists  of  our  own  school 
that  I  think  any  fair  comparison  can  be  instituted,  and  I  wish 
to  assert  Harding's  knowledge  of  foliage  more  distinctly,  be- 
cause he  neither  does  -justice  to  himself,  nor  is, 

§  28.    Foliage  of   ^   ,  i  •    i       -    ^  .^  n  i       i  •     o  ^^  . 

J.  D.  Harding,  i  think,  rightly  estimated  by  his  fellow-artists. 

Its  deficiencies.     t    ^    l^       i.        ^  i 

1  shall  not  make  any  invidious  remarks  respect- 
ing individuals,  but  I  think  it  necessary  to  state  generally, 
that  the  style  of  foliage  painting  chiefly  characteristic  of  the 
pictures  on  the  line  of  the  Royal  Academy  is  of  the  most  de- 
graded kind  ;  *  and  that,  except  Turner  and  Mulready,  we 
have,  as  far  as  I  know,  no  Royal  Academician  capable  of 
painting  even  the  smallest  portion  of  foliage  in  a  dignified 
or  correct  manner  ;  all  is  lost  in  green  shadows  with  glitter- 
ing yellow  lights,  white  trunks  with  black  patches  on  them, 
and  leaves  of  no  species  in  particular.  Much  laborious  and 
clever  foliage  drawing  is  to  be  found  in  the  rooms  of  the  New 
Water-Color  Society  ;  but  we  have  no  one  in  any  wise  com- 
parable to  Harding  for  thorough  knowledge  of  the  subject, 
for  power  of  expression  in  a  sketch  from  nature,  or  for  natural 
and  unaffected  conception  in  the  study. 

Maintaining  for  him  this  high  position,  it  is  necessary  that 
I  should  also  state  those  deficiencies  which  appear  to  me  to 
conceal  his  real  power,  and  in  no  small  degree  to  prevent  his 
progress. 

His  over-fondness  for  brilliant  execution  I  have  already 
noticed.    He  is  fonder  of  seeing  something  tolerably  like  a 
tree  produced  with  few  touches,  than  something  very  like  a 
tree  produced  with  many.    Now,  it  is  quite  al- 

§29,   His  brill-    ,         ,  ,      1  .        „  1  .  .  i?  1  . 

iancy  of  execu-  lowable  that  Occasionally,  and  in  portions  or  his 

tion  too  manifest.      .  ,         >  .     i  i»  !/»• 

picture,  a  great  artist  should  indulge  himselt  in 
this  luxury  of  sketching,  yet  it  is  a  perilous  luxury  ;  it  blunts 
the  feeling  and  weakens  the  hand.  I  have  said  enough  in 
various  places  respecting  the  virtues  of  negligence  and  of 

*  Of  Stanfield's  foliage  I  remember  too  little  to  enable  me  to  form  any 
definite  judjrment ;  it  is  a  pity  that  he  so  much  neglects  this  noble  ele- 
ment of  landscape. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


163 


finish,  (compare  above  the  chapter  on  Ideas  of  Power  in  Part 
1.  Sect.  II.,  and  Part  III.  Sect.  I.  Ch.  X.  §  4,)  and  I  need  only 
say  here,  therefore,  that  Harding's  foliage  is  never  suffi- 
ciently finished,  and  has  at  its  best  the  look  of  a  rapid 
sketch  from  nature  touched  upon  at  home.  In  1843,  (I 
think,)  there  was  a  pretty  drawing  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Water-Color  Society, — the  clear  green  water  of  a  torrent 
resting  among  stones,  with  copse-like  wood  on  each  side,  a 
bridge  in  the  distance,  a  white  flower  (water-lily  ?)  catching 
the  eye  in  front  ;  the  tops  of  the  trees  on  the  left  of  this 
picture  were  mere  broad  blots  of  color  dashed  upon  the  sky 
and  connected  by  stems.  I  allow  the  power  necessary  to  at- 
tain any  look  of  foliage  by  such  means,  but  it  is  power 
abused  :  b}"  no  such  means  can  any  of  the  higher  virtue  and 
impressiveness  of  foliage  be  rendered.  In  the  use  of  body 
color  for  near  leaves,  his  execution  is  also  too  hasty  ;  often 
the  touches  are  mere  square  or  round  dots,  which  can  be  un- 
derstood only  for  foliage  by  their  arrangement.  This  fault  was 
especially  marked  in  the  trees  of  his  picture  painted  for  the 
Academy  two  years  ago  ;  they  were  very  nearly  shapeless, 
and  could  not  stand  even  in  courtesy  for  walnut  leaves,  for 
which,  judging  by  the  make  of  the  tree,  they  must  have  been 
intended. 

His  drawing  of  boughs  is,  in  all  points  of  demonstrable 
law,  right,  and  very  frequently  easy  and  graceful  also  ;  yet 
it  has  two  eminent  faults,  the  first,  that  the  flow  of  the  bough 
is  sacrificed  to  its  texture,  the  pencil  checkino- 

§  30.  His  bough-  '  ^  .         .  ^ 

drawing  and  itseli  and  hcsitatmg  at  dots,  and  stripes,  and 
knots,  instead  of  following  the  grand  and  un- 
broken tendency  of  growth  :  the  second,  that  however  good 
the  arrangement  may  be  as  far  as  regards  merely  flexibility, 
intricacy,  and  freedom,  there  are  none  of  those  composed 
groups  of  line  which  are  unfailing  in  nature.  Harding's  work 
is  not  grand  enough  to  be  natural.  The  drawings  in  the 
park  and  the  forest,  are,  I  believe,  almost  facsimiles  of 
sketches  made  from  nature  ;  yet  it  is  evident  at  once  that  in 
all  of  them  nothing  but  the  general  lie  and  disposition  of  the 
boughs  has  been  taken  from  the  tree,  and  that  no  single 


164 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


branch  or  spray  has  been  faithfully  copied  or  patiently  stud- 
ied. 

This  want  of  close  study  necessarily  causes  several  deficien- 
cies of  feeling  respecting  general  form.  Harding's  choice  is 
always  of  tree  forms  comparatively  imperfect,  leaning  this 
way  and  that,  and  unequal  in  the  lateral  arrangements  of 
foliage.  Such  forms  are  often  graceful,  always  picturesque, 
but  rarely  grand  ;  and  when  systematically  adopted,  untrue. 
It  requires  more  patient  study  to  attain  just  feeling  of  the 
dignity  and  character  of  a  purely  formed  tree  with  all  its 
symmetries  perfect. 

One  more  cause  of  incorrectness  I  may  note,  though  it  is 
not  peculiar  to  the  artist's  tree-drawing,  but  attaches  to  his 
general  system  of  sketching.  In  Harding's  valuable  work 
on  the  use  of  the  Lead  Pencil,  there  is  one  prin- 

§  31.  Local  color,      ,  .  .  ^ 

how  far  expres-  ciplc  advanced  which  I  believe  to  be  false  and 

sible  in  black  and     ,  i       ^         p     ^  '     ,  ' 

white,  and  with  dangerous,  that  the  local  color  or  objects  is  not 
what  advantage,  ^j^^j-^j^y  rendered.    I  think  the  instance 

given  is  that  of  some  baskets,  whose  darkness  is  occasioned 
solely  by  the  touches  indicating  the  wicker-work.  Now,  I 
believe,  that  an  essential  difference  between  the  sketch  of  a 
great  and  of  a  comparatively  inferior  master  is,  that  the 
former  is  conceived  entirely  in  shade  and  color,  and  its 
masses  are  blocked  out  with  reference  to  both,  while  the  in- 
ferior draughtsman  checks  at  textures  and  petty  characters 
of  object.  If  Rembrandt  had  had  to  sketch  such  baskets,  he 
would  have  troubled  himself  very  little  about  the  wicker- 
work  ;  but  he  would  have  looked  to  see  where  they  came 
dark  or  light  on  the  sand,  and  where  there  were  any  spark- 
ling points  of  light  on  the  wet  osiers.  These  darks  and  lights 
he  would  have  scratched  in  with  the  fastest  lines  he  could, 
leaving  no  white  paper  but  at  the  wet  points  of  lustre  ;  if  he 
had  had  time,  the  wicker-work  would  have  come  afterwards.* 
*  It  is  true  that  many  of  Rembrandt's  etchings  are  merely  in  line, 
but  it  may  be  observed  that  the  subject  is  universally  conceived  in  light 
and  shade,  and  that  the  lines  are  either  merely  guides  in  the  arrange- 
ment, or  an  exquisite  indication  of  the  key-notes  of  shade,  on  which  the 
after-system  of  it  is  to  be  based — portions  of  fragmentary  finish,  show- 
ing the  completeness  of  the  conception. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION. 


165 


And  I  think,  that  the  first  thing  to  be  taught  to  any  pupil, 
is  neither  how  to  manage  the  pencil,  nor  how  to  attain  char- 
acter of  outline,  but  rather  to  see  where  things  are  light  and 
where  they  are  dark,  and  to  draw  them  as  he  sees  them, 
never  caring  whether  his  lines  be  dexterous  or  slovenly.  The 
result  of  such  study  is  the  immediate  substitution  of  down- 
right drawing  for  symbolism,  and  afterwards  a  judicious 
moderation  in  the  use  of  extreme  lights  and  darks  ;  for  where 
local  colors  are  really  drawn,  so  much  of  what  seems  violently 
dark  is  found  to  come  light  against  something  else,  and  so 
much  of  what  seems  high  light  to  come  dark  against  the  sky, 
that  the  draughtsman  trembles  at  finding  himself  plunged 
either  into  blackness  or  whiteness,  and  seeks,  as  he  should, 
for  means  of  obtaining  force  without  either. 

It  is  in  consequence  of  his  evident  habit  of  sketching 
more  with  a  view  to  detail  and  character  than  to  the  great 
masses,  that  Harding's  chiaroscuro  is  frequently  crude,  scat- 
tered, and  petty.  Black  shadows  occur  under  his  distant 
trees,  white  high  lights  on  his  foreground  rocks,  the  foliage 
and  trunks  are  divided  by  violent  oppositions  into  separate 
masses,  and  the  branches  lose  in  spots  of  moss  and  furrow- 
ings  of  bark  their  soft  roundings  of  delicate  form,  and  their 
grand  relations  to  each  other  and  the  sky. 

It  is  owing  to  my  respect  for  the  artist,  and  my  belief  in 
his  power  and  conscientious  desire  to  do  what  is  best,  that  I 
have  thus  extended  these  somewhat  unkind  remarks.  On  the 
§  32.  Opposition  Other  hand,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  his 
ma^rTer^^  and  knowledge  of  nature  is  most  extended,  and  his 
great  knowledge,  dexterity  of  drawing  most  instructive,  especially 
considering  his  range  of  subject  ;  for  whether  in  water,  rock, 
or  foliage,  he  is  equally  skilful  in  attaining  whatever  he  de- 
sires, (though  he  does  not  always  desire  all  that  he  ought  ;) 
and  artists  should  keep  in  mind,  that  neither  grandeur  of 
manner  nor  truth  of  system  can  atone  for  the  want  of  this 
knowledge  and  this  skill.  Constable's  manner  is  good  and 
great,  but  being  unable  to  draw  even  a  log  of  wood,  much 
more  a  trunk  of  a  tree  or  a  stone,  he  left  his  works  destitute 
of  substance,  mere  studies  of  effect  without  any  expression 


166 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEGETATION, 


of  specific  knowledge  ;  and  thus  even  what  is  great  in  them 
has  been  productive,  I  believe,  of  very  great  injury  in  its  en- 
couragement of  the  most  superficial  qualities  of  the  English 
school. 

The  foliage  of  David  Cox  has  been  already  noticed  (pref- 
ace to  second  edition),    It  is  altogether  exquisite  in  color, 
and  in  its  impressions  of  coolness,  shade,  and  mass  ;  of  its 
,  drawing:  I  cannot  say  anythinor,  but  that  I  should 

§33.    Foliage  of  °  .    /       *^  ^ 

Cox,  Fielding,  be  sorry  to  see  it  better.    Copley  Fielding's  is 

and  Cattermole.  i    i  i  •  i     i  •  . 

remarkable  tor  its  intricacy  and  elegance  ;  it  is, 
however,  not  free  from  affectation,  and,  as  has  been  before 
remarked,  is  always  evidently  composed  in  the  study.  The 
execution  is  too  rough  and  woolly  ;  it  is  wanting  in  simplic- 
ity, sharpness,  and  freshness, — above  all  in  specific  charac- 
ter ;  not,  however,  in  his  middle  distances,  where  the  rounded 
masses  of  forest  and  detached  blasted  trunks  of  fir  are  usu- 
ally very  admirable.  Cattermole  has  very  grand  conceptions 
of  general  form,  but  wild  and  without  substance,  and  there- 
fore incapable  of  long  maintaining  their  attractiveness,  es- 
pecially lately,  the  execution  having  become  in  the  last  de- 
gree coarse  and  affected.  This  is  bitterly  to  be  regretted,  for 
few  of  our  artists  would  paint  foliage  better,  if  he  would 
paint  it  from  nature,  and  with  reverence. 

Hunt,  I  think,  fails,  and  fails  only,  in  foliage  ;  fails,  as  the 
Daguerreotype  does,  from  over-fidelity  ;  for  foliage  will  not 
be  imitated,  it  must  be  reasoned  out  and  suggested  ;  yet 
§  34.  Hunt  and  Hunt  is  the  Only  man  we  have  who  can  paint 
howTibe^'^nTer-  the  real  leaf  green  under  sunlight,  and,  in  this 
r^^ht^^and^offen*  respect,  his  trees  are  delicious, — summer  itself, 
sive  if  otherwise.  Creswick  has  sweet  feeling,  and  tries  for  the 
real  green  too,  but,  from  want  of  science  in  his  shadows, 
ends  in  green  paint  instead  of  green  light  ;  in  mere  local 
color,  instead  of  color  raised  by  sunshine.  One  example  is 
enough  to  show  where  the  fault  lies.  In  his  picture  of  the 
Weald  of  Kent,  in  the  British  Institution  this  year,  there 
was  a  cottage  in  the  middle  distance  with  white  walls,  and 
a  red  roof.  The  dark  sides  of  the  white  walls  and  of  the  roof 
were  of  the  same  color,  a  dark  purple — wrong  for  both. 


OF  TRUTH  OF  VEOETATION. 


167 


Repeated  inaccuracies  of  this  kind  necessarily  deprive  even 
the  most  brilliant  color  of  all  appearance  of  sunshine,  and 
they  are  much  to  be  deprecated  in  Creswick,  as  he  is  one  of 
the  very  few  artists  who  do  draw  from  nature  and  try  for 
nature.  Some  of  his  thickets  and  torrent-beds  are  most 
painfully  studied,  and  yet  he  cannot  draw  a  bough  nor  a 
stone.  I  suspect  he  is  too  much  in  the  habit  of  studying 
only  large  views  on  the  spot,  and  not  of  drawing  small  por- 
tions thoroughly.  I  trust  it  will  be  seen  that  these,  as  all 
other  remarks  that  I  have  made  throughout  this  volume  on 
particular  works,  are  not  in  depreciation  of,  or  unthankful- 
ness  for,  what  the  artist  has  done,  but  in  the  desire  that  he 
should  do  himself  more  justice  and  more  honor.  I  have  much 
pleasure  in  Creswick's  works,  and  I  am  glad  always  to  see 
them  admired  by  others. 

I  shall  conclude  this  sketch  of  the  foliage  art  of  England, 
by  mention  of  two  artists,  whom  I  believe  to  be  representa- 
tive of  a  considerable  class,  admirable  in  their  reverence  and 
§  35.  Conclusion,  patience  of  study,  yet  unappreciated  by  the 
neu  and^  s  Pal-  P^^t)lic,  bccause  what  they  do  is  unrecommended 
by  dexterities  of  handling.  The  forest  studies 
of  J.  Linnell  are  peculiarly  elaborate,  and,  in  many  points, 
most  skilful  ;  they  fail  perhaps  of  interest,  owing  to  over- 
fulness  of  detail  and  a  want  of  generalization  in  the  effect  ; 
but  even  a  little  more  of  the  Harding  sharpness  of  touch 
would  set  off  their  sterling  qualities,  and  make  them  felt.  A 
less  known  artist,  S.  Palmer,  lately  admitted  a  member  of  the 
Old  Water-Color  Society,  is  deserving  of  the  very  highest 
place  among  faithful  followers  of  nature.  His  studies  of 
foreign  foliage  especially  are  beyond  all  praise  for  care  and 
fulness.  1  have  never  seen  a  stone  pine  or  a  cypress  drawn 
except  by  him  ;  and  his  feeling  is  as  pure  and  grand  as  his 
lidelity  is  exemplary.  He  has  not,  however,  yet,  I  think,  dis- 
covered what  is  necessary  and  unnecessary  in  a  great  picture; 
and  his  works,  sent  to  the  Society's  rooms,  have  been  most 
unfavorable  examples  of  his  power,  and  have  been  generally, 
as  yet,  in  places  where  all  that  is  best  in  them  is  out  of 
sight.     I  look  to  him,  nevertheless,  unless  he  lose  himself  in 


168  GENERAL  REMARKS  RESPECTING 


over-reverence  for  certain  conventionalisms  of  the  elder 
schools,  as  one  of  the  probable  renovators  and  correctors  of 
whatever  is  failing  or  erroneous  in  the  practice  of  English 
art. 

CHAPTER  11. 

GENERAL  REMARKS  RESPECTING  THE  TRUTH  OF  TURNER. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  some  general  conception  of  the 
extent  of  Turner's  knowledge,  and  the  truth  of  his  practice, 
by  the  deliberate  examination  of  the  characteristics  of  the 
_        .     four  e;'reat  elements  of  landscape — sky,  earth, 

§1.  No  necessity  ^  .  r  J?  ^> 

of  entering  into  water,  and  ve^etatiou.    I  have  not  thous^ht  it 

cliscussio  n     o  f  ^  ^  ^ 

architectural  necessary  to  devote  a  chapter  to  architecture, 
because  enough  has  been  said  on  this  subject  in 
Part  II.  Sect.  1.  Chap.  VII. ;  and  its  general  truths,  which 
are  those  with  which  the  landscape  painter,  as  such,  is  chiefly 
concerned,  require  only  a  simple  and  straightforward  appli- 
cation of  those  rules  of  which  every  other  material  object  of 
a  landscape  has  required  a  most  difficult  and  complicated  ap- 
plication. Turner's  knowledge  of  perspective  probably  adds 
to  his  power  in  the  arrangement  of  every  order  of  subject  ; 
but  ignorance  on  this  head  is  rather  disgraceful  than  knowl- 
edge meritorious.  It  is  disgraceful,  for  instance,  that  any 
man  should  commit  such  palpable  and  atrocious  errors  in  or- 
dinary perspective  as  are  seen  in  the  quay  in  Claude's  sea- 
piece,  No.  14,  National  Gallery,  or  in  the  curved  portico  of 
No.  30  ;  but  still  these  are  not  points  to  be  taken  into  con- 
sideration as  having  anything  to  do  with  artistical  rank,  just 
as,  though  we  should  say  it  was  disgraceful  if  a  great  poet 
could  not  spell,  we  should  not  consider  such  a  defect  as  in 
any  way  taking  from  his  poetical  rank.  Neither  is  there  any- 
thing particularly  belonging  to  architecture,  as  such,  which 
it  is  any  credit  to  an  artist  to  observe  or  represent  ;  it  is  only 
a  simple  and  clear  field  for  the  manifestation  of  his  knowl- 
edge of  general  laws.  Any  surveyor  or  engineer  could  have 
drawn  the  steps  and  balustrade  in  the  Hero  and  Leander,  as 


THE  TRUTH  OF  TURNER, 


169 


well  as  Turner  has  ;  but  there  is  no  man  living  but  himself 
who  could  have  thrown  the  accidental  shadows  upon  them. 
I  may,  however,  refer  for  general  illustration  of  Turner's 
power  as  an  architectural  draughtsman,  to  the  front  of  Rouen 
Cathedral,  engraved  in  the  Rivers  of  France,  and  to  the  Ely 
in  the  England.  I  know  nothing  in  art  which  can  be  set  be- 
side the  former  of  these  for  overwhelming  grandeur  and  sim- 
plicity of  effect,  and  inexhaustible  intricacy  of  parts.  I  have 
then  only  a  few  remarks  farther  to  offer  respecting  the  gen- 
eral character  of  all  those  truths  which  we  have  been  hith- 
erto endeavoring  to  explain  and  illustrate. 

The  difference  in  the  accuracy  of  the  lines  of  the  Torso  of 
the  Vatican,  (the  Maestro  of  M.  Angelo,)  from  those  in  one 
of  M.  Angelo's  finest  works,  could  perhaps  scarcely  be  ap- 
^2  Extreme  dif  P^^^^^^^^  t)y  any  eye  or  feeling  undisciplined  by 
ficuity  of  iiius-  the  most  perfect  and  practical  anatomical  knowl- 

trating    ot    ex-  .  r»  i  ^  -i 

plaining  the  edge,  it  rcsts  ou  points  or  such  traceless  and 
highest  truth.  refined  delicacy,  that  though  we  feel  them  in 
the  result,  we  cannot  follow  them  in  the  details.  Yet  they 
are  such  and  so  great  as  to  place  the  Torso  alone  in  art,  soli- 
tary and  supreme  ;  while  the  finest  of  M.  Angelo's  works, 
considered  with  respect  to  truth  alone,  are  said  to  be  only  on 
a  level  with  antiques  of  the  second  class,  under  the  Apollo 
and  Venus,  that  is,  tw4)  classes  or  grades  below  the  Torso. 
But  suppose  the  best  sculptor  in  the  world,  possessing  the 
most  entire  appreciation  of  the  excellence  of  the  Torso,  were 
to  sit  down,  pen  in  hand,  to  try  and  tell  us  wherein  the  pecul- 
iar truth  of  each  line  consisted  ?  Could  any  words  that  he 
could  use  make  us  feel  the  hairbreadth  of  depth  and  dis- 
tance on  which  all  depends  ?  or  end  in  anything  more  than 
bare  assertions  of  the  inferiority  of  this  line  to  that,  which, 
if  we  did  not  perceive  for  ourselves,  no  explanation  could 
ever  illustrate  to  us  ?  He  might  as  well  endeavor  to  explain 
to  us  by  words  some  taste  or  other  subject  of  sense,  of 
which  we  had  no  experience.  And  so  it  is  with  all  truths  of 
the  highest  order  ;  they  are  separated  from  those  of  average 
precision  by  points  of  extreme  delicacy,  which  none  but  the 
cultivated  eye  can  in  the  least  feel,  and  to  express  which,  all 


170  GENERAL  REMARKS  RESPECTING 


■words  are  absolutely  meaningless  and  useless.  Consequent* 
ly,  in  all  that  I  have  been  saying  of  the  truth  of  artists,  I 
„  „  have  been  able  to  point  out  only  coarse,  broad, 

§  3.  The  positive  ^  ^  j  ?  j 

rank  of  Turner  is  and  explicable  matters  ;  I  have  been  perfectly 

in    no     degree  ^  ^    \  /j-j-iti  t 

shown  in  the  unable  to  cxpress  (and  indeed  1  have  made  no 
but^oniy  his^rS  cndcavor  to  express)  the  finely  drawn  and  distin- 
tive  rank.  guished  truth  in  which  all  the  real  excellence  of 

art  consists.  All  those  truths  which  I  have  been  able  to  ex- 
plain and  demonstrate  in  Turner,  are  such  as  any  artist  of  or- 
dinary powers  of  observation  ought  to  be  capable  of  rendering. 
It  is  disgraceful  to  omit  them;  but  it  is  no  very  great  credit  to 
observe  them.  I  have  indeed  proved  that  they  have  been  neg- 
lected, and  disgracefully  so,  by  those  men  who  are  commonly 
considered  the  Fathers  of  Art  ;  but  in  showing  that  they  have 
been  observed  by  Turner,  I  have  only  proved  him  to  be  above 
other  men  in  knowledge  of  truth,  I  have  not  given  any  con- 
ception of  his  own  positive  rank  as  a  Painter  of  Nature. 
But  it  stands  to  reason,  that  the  men,  vrho  in  broad,  simple, 
and  demonstrable  matters  are  perpetually  violating  truth,  will 
not  be  particularly  accurate  or  careful  in  carrying  out  deli- 
cate and  refined,  and  undemonstrable  matters  ;  and  it  stands 
equally  to  reason,  that  the  man  who,  as  far  as  argument  or 
demonstration  can  go,  is  found  invariably  truthful,  will,  in  all 
probability,  be  truthful  to  the  last  lina,  and  shadow  of  a  line. 
And  such  is,  indeed,  the  case  with  every  touch  of  this  con- 
„  ,  _         ,    summate  artist :    the  essential  excellence — all 

§  4.  The  exceed-  ^  ' 

ing  refinement  of  that  Constitutes  the  real  and  exceedino;  value  of 

his  truth.  i         .    i  -i         t     i  • 

his  works — is  beyond  and  above  expression  ;  it 
is  a  truth  inherent  in  every  line,  and  breathing  in  every  hue, 
too  delicate  and  exquisite  to  admit  of  any  kind  of  proof,  nor 
to  be  ascertained  except  by  the  highest  of  tests — the  keen 
feeling  attained  by  extended  knowledge  and  long  study. 
Two  lines  are  laid  on  canvas  ;  one  is  right  and  another  wrong. 
There  is  no  difference  between  them  appreciable  by  the  com- 
passes— none  appreciable  by  the  ordinary  eye — none  which 
can  be  pointed  out,  if  it  is  not  seen.  One  person  feels  it, — 
another  does  not  ;  but  the  feeling  or  sight  of  the  one  can  by 
no  words  be  communicated  to  the  other  :  it  would  be  unjust 


THE  TRUTH  OF  TURNER. 


171 


if  it  could,  for  that  feeling  and  sight  have  been  the  reward 
of  years  of  labor.    And  there  is,  indeed,  nothing  in  Turner 
rr^t-       .    — not  one  dot  nor  line — whose  meanin^r  can  be 

§5.    There  IS  ^ 

nothing  in  his  understood   without  knowledge  :    because  he 

works  which  can  .  i    •  •  i 

be  enjoyed  with-  ncvcr  aims  at  sensual  impressions,  but  at  the 
out  knowledge,  ^^^p  f^^y^\  truth,  which  Only  meditation  can  dis- 
cover, and  only  experience  recognize.  There  is  nothing  done 
or  omitted  by  him,  which  does  not  imply  such  a  comparison 
of  ends,  such  rejection  of  the  least  worthy,  (as  far  as  they 
are  incompatible  with  the  rest,)  such  careful  selection  and 
arrangement  of  all  that  can  be  united,  as  can  only  be  en- 
joyed by  minds  capable  of  going  through  the  same  process, 
and  discovering  the  reasons  for  the  choice.  And,  as  there 
§  6.  And  noth-  is  nothing  in  his  works  which  can  be  enjoyed 
edle^'^n^noTen-  without  knowledge,  so  there  is  nothing  in  them 
able  us  to  enjoy,  which  knowledge  wiU  not  enable  us  to  enjoy. 
There  is  no  test  of  our  acquaintance  with  nature  so  absolute 
and  unfailing  as  the  degree  of  admiration  we  feel  for  Turn- 
er's painting.  Precisely  as  we  are  shallow  in  our  knowledge, 
vulgar  in  our  feeling,  and  contracted  in  our  views  of  princi- 
ples, will  the  works  of  this  artist  be  stumbling-blocks  or  fool- 
ishness to  us  : — precisely  in  the  degree  in  which  we  are 
familiar  with  nature,  constant  in  our  observation  of  her,  and 
enlarged  in  our  understanding  of  her,  will  they  expand  be- 
fore our  eyes  into  glory  and  beauty.  In  every  new  insight 
which  we  obtain  into  the  works  of  God,  in  every  new  idea 
which  we  receive  from  His  creation,  we  shall  find  ourselves 
possessed  of  an  interpretation  and  a  guide  to  something  in 
Turner's  works  which  we  had  not  before  understood.  We  may 
range  over  Europe,  from  shore  to  shore  ;  and  from  every  rock 
that  we  tread  upon,  every  sky  that  passes  over  our  heads, 
every  local  form  of  vegetation  or  of  soil,  we  shall  receive 
fresh  illustration  of  his  principles — fresh  confirmation  of  his 
facts.  We  shall  feel,  wherever  we  go,  that  he  has  been  there  be- 
fore us — whatever  we  see,  that  he  has  seen  and  seized  before 
us  :  and  we  shall  at  last  cease  the  investigation,  with  a  well- 
grounded  trust,  that  whatever  we  have  been  unable  to  ac- 
count for,  and  what  we  still  dislike  in  his  works,  has  reason 


172         BESPEGTING  THE  TRVTH  OF  TURNER. 


for  it,  and  foundation  like  the  rest  ;  and  that  even  where  he 
has  failed  or  erred,  there  is  a  beauty  in  the  failure  which 
none  are  able  to  equal,  and  a  dignity  in  the  error  which  none 
are  worthy  to  reprove. 

There  has  been  marked  and  constant  progress  in  his  mind  ; 
he  has  not,  like  some  few  artists,  been  without  childhood  ; 
his  course  of  study  has  been  as  evidently  as  it  has  been 
§7  His  former  swiftly  progressive,  and  in  different  stages  of 
rank  and  prog-  the  struo^pfle,  sometimes  one  order  of  truth, 

ress.  ^     oo    ^  ^  7 

sometimes  another,  has  been  aimed  at  or  omit- 
ted. But  from  the  beginning  to  the  present  height  of  his 
career,  he  has  never  sacrificed  a  greater  truth  to  a  less.  As 
he  advanced,  the  previous  knowledge  or  attainment  was  ab- 
§  8.  standing  sorbed  in  what  succeeded,  or  abandoned  only  if 
works!  ITeTr  incompatible,  and  never  abandoned  without  a 
Snse^quence  *of  ^^^^  5  ^Tid  his  present  works  present  the  sum 
their  fulness.  ^^d  perfection  of  his  accumulated  knowledge, 
delivered  with  the  impatience  and  passion  of  one  who  feels 
too  much,  and  knows  too  much,  and  has  too  little  time  to  say 
it  in,  to  pause  for  expression,  or  ponder  over  his  syllables. 
There  is  in  them  the  obscurity,  but  the  truth,  of  prophecy  ; 
the  instinctive  and  burning  language,  which  would  express 
less  if  it  uttered  more,  which  is  indistinct  only  by  its  fulness, 
and  dark  with  its  abundant  meaning.  He  feels  now,  with 
long-trained  vividness  and  keenness  of  sense,  too  bitterly 
the  impotence  of  the  hand,  and  the  vainness  of  the  color  to 
catch  one  shadow  or  one  image  of  the  glory  which  God  has 
revealed  to  him.  He  has  dwelt  and  communed  with  nature 
all  the  days  of  his  life  ;  he  knows  her  now  too  well,  he  can- 
not palter  over  the  material  littleness  of  her  outward  form  ; 
he  must  give  her  soul,  or  he  has  done  nothing,  and  he  cannot 
do  this  with  the  flax,  and  the  earth,  and  the  oil.  "  I  cannot 
gather  the  sunbeams  out  of  #the  east,  or  I  would  make  them 
tell  you  what  I  have  seen  ;  but  read  this,  and  interpret  this, 
and  let  us  remember  together.  I  cannot  gather  the  gloom 
out  of  the' night  sky,  or  I  would  make  that  teach  you  what  I 
have  seen  ;  but  read  this,  and  interpret  this,  and  let  us  feel 
together.    And  if  you  have  not  that  within  you  which  I  can 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM,  173 


summon  to  my  aid,  if  you  have  not  the  sun  in  your  spirit, 
and  the  passion  in  your  heart,  which  my  words  may  awaken, 
though  they  be  indistinct  and  swift,  leave  me  ;  for  I  will 
give  you  no  patient  mockery,  no  laborious  insult  of  that  glori- 
ous nature,  whose  I  am  and  whom  I  serve.  Let  other  ser- 
vants imitate  the  voice  and  the  gesture  of  their  master,  while 
they  forget  his  message.  Hear  that  message  from  me  ;  but 
remember,  that  the  teaching  of  Divine  truth  must  still  be  a 
mystery." 


CHAPTER  in. 

COKCLUSIOIN'.  MODERN  ART  AIS^D  MODERN"  CRITICISM. 

We  have  only,  in  conclusion,  to  offer  a  few  general  re- 
marks respecting  modern  art  and  modern  criticism. 

We  wish,  in  the  first  place,  to  remove  the  appearance  of 
invidiousness  and  partiality  which  the  constant  prominence 
§  1    The  entire  ^^"^^^  present  portion  of  the  work  to  the 

prominence  hith-  productious  of  One  artist,  Can  scarcely  fail  of 

erto  given  to  the  .         .  .    t        /»  t  ^xn 

works  of  one  ar-  bearing  in  the  minds  oi  most  readers.  When 
by  our  not  being  we  pass  to  the  examination  of  what  is  beautiful 

able  to  take  cog-  ^  ••  .  ^     ^^    p  jir»i 

nizance  of  char-  and  expressive  m  art,  we  shall  irequently  nnd 
acter.  ^     distinctive  qualities  in  the  minds  even  of  inferior 

artists,  which  have  led  them  to  the  pursuit  and  embodying 
of  particular  trains  of  thought,  altogether  different  from  those 
which  direct  the  compositions  of  other  men,  and  incapable 
of  comparison  with  them.  Now,  when  this  is  the  case,  we 
should  consider  it  in  the  highest  degree  both  invidious  and 
illogical,  to  say  of  such  different  modes  of  exertion  of  the  in- 
tellect, that  one  is  in  all  points  greater  or  nobler  than  another. 
We  shall  probably  find  something  in  the  working  of  all  minds 
which  has  an  end  and  a  power  peculiar  to  itself,  and  which 
is  deserving  of  free  and  full  admiration,  without  any  reference 
whatsoever  to  what  has,  in  other  fields,  been  accomplished  by 
other  modes  of  thought,  and  directions  of  aim.  We  shall, 
indeed,  find  a  wider  range  and  grasp  in  one  man  than  in 


174     MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


another  ;  but  yet  it  will  be  our  own  fault  if  we  do  not  dis- 
cover something  in  the  most  limited  range  of  mind  which  is 
different  from,  and  in  its  way  better  than,  anything  presented 
to  us  by  the  more  grasping  intellect.  We  all  know  that  the 
nightingale  sings  more  nobly  than  the  lark  ;  but  who,  there- 
fore, would  wish  the  lark  not  to  sing,  or  would  deny  that  it 
had  a  character  of  its  own,  which  bore  a  part  among  the  mel- 
odies of  creation  no  less  essential  than  that  of  the  more 
richly-gifted  bird  ?  And  thus  we  shall  find  and  feel  that 
§  2.  The  feelings  whatever  difference  may  exist  between  the  in- 
aJe^?ncapIbi?^^of  tcllectual  powcrs  of  One  artist  and  another,  yet 
full  comparison,  wherever  there  is  any  true  genius,  there  will  be 
some  peculiar  lesson  which  even  the  humblest  will  teach  us 
more  sweetly  and  perfectly  than  those  far  above  them  in 
prouder  attributes  of  mind  ;  and  we  should  be  as  mistaken  as 
we  should  be  unjust  and  invidious,  if  we  refused  to  receive 
§3  Butthefidei  ^^^^  their  pecuHar  message  with  gratitude  and 
ity  and  truth  of  veneration,  merely  because  it  was  a  sentence 

each  are  capable  i  -r*  i  •  t 

of  real  compari-  and  not  a  volume.  JDut  the  case  is  dinerent 
when  we  examine  their  relative  fidelity  to  given 
facts.  That  fidelity  depends  on  no  peculiar  modes  of  thought 
or  habits  of  character  ;  it  is  the  result  of  keen  sensibility, 
combined  with  high  powers  of  memory  and  association.  These 
qualities,  as  such,  are  the  same  in  all  men  ;  character  or  feel- 
ing may  direct  their  choice  to  this  or  that  objact,  but  the 
fidelity  with  which  they  treat  either  the  one  or  the  other,  is 
dependent  on  those  simple  powers  of  sense  and  intellect  which 
are  like  and  comparable  in  all,  and  of  which  we  can  always 
say  that  they  are  greater  in  this  man,  or  less  in  that  without 
reference  to  the  character  of  the  individual.  Those  feelings 
which  direct  Cox  to  the  painting  of  wild,  weedy  banks,  and 
cool,  melting  skies,  and  those  which  directed  Barret  to  the 
painting  of  glowing  foliage  and  melancholy  twilight,  are  both 
just  and  beautiful  in  their  way,  and  are  both  worthy  of  high 
praise  and  gratitude,  without  necessity,  nay,  without  proper 
possibility  of  comparing  one  with  the  other.  But  the  degree 
of  fidelity  with  which  the  leaves  of  the  one  and  the  light  of 
the  other  are  rendered,  depends  upon  faculties  of  sight,  sense, 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM.  175 


and  memory  common  to  both,  and  perfectly  comparable  ;  and 
we  may  say  fearlessly,  and  without  injustice,  that  one  or  the 
other,  as  the  case  may  be,  is  more  faithful  in  that  which  they 
§4. Especially  have  chosen  to  represent.  It  is  also  to  be  re- 
\^^Z\y  m^Iiie^^^^  mcmbcrcd  that  these  faculties  of  sense  and 
ment^  of^aii^Tb-  ^^^^^^J  i^^t  partial  in  their  effect;  they  will 
jects.  not  induce  fidelity  in  the  rendering  of  one  class 

of  object,  and  fail  of  doing  so  in  another.  They  act  equally, 
and  with  equal  results,  whatever  may  be  the  matter  subjected 
to  them  ;  the  same  delicate  sense  which  perceives  the  utmost 
grace  of  the  fibres  of  a  tree,  will  be  equally  unerring  in  trac- 
ing the  character  of  cloud  ;  and  the  quick  memory  which 
seizes  and  retains  the  circumstances  of  a  flying  effect  of 
shadow  or  color,  will  be  equally  effectual  in  fixing  the  im- 
pression of  the  instantaneous  form  of  a  moving  figure  or  a 
breaking  wave.  There  are  indeed  one  or  two  broad  distinc- 
tions in  the  nature  of  the  senses, — a  sensibility  to  color,  for 
instance,  being  very  different  from  a  sensibility  to  form  ;  so 
that  a  man  may  possess  one  without  the  other,  and  an  artist 
may  succeed  in  mere  imitation  of  what  is  before  him,  of  air, 
sunlight,  etc.,  without  possessing  sensibility  at  all.  But 
wherever  we  have,  in  the  drawing  of  any  one  object,  sufficient 
evidence  of  real  intellectual  power,  of  the  sense  which  per- 
ceives the  essential  qualities  of  a  thing,  and  the  judgment 
which  arranges  them  so  as  to  illustrate  each  other,  we  may 
be  quite  certain  that  the  same  sense  and  judgment  will  oper- 
ate equally  on  whatever  is  subjected  to  them,  and  that  the 
§5.  No  man  artist  will  be  equally  great  and  masterly  in  his 
wen7  ifle^^can  drawing  of  all  that  he  attempts.  Hence  we  may 
draw  nothing  else,  j^^  quite  sure  that  wherever  an  artist  appears  to 
be  truthful  in  one  branch  of  art,  and  not  in  another,  the  ap- 
parent truth  is  either  owing  to  some  trickery  of  imitation,  or 
is  not  so  great  as  we  suppose  it  to  be.  In  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  people  who  are  celebrated  for  drawing  only  one  thing, 
and  can  only  draw  one  thing,  draw  that  one  thing  worse  than 
anybody  else.  An  artist  may  indeed  confine  himself  to  a 
limited  range  of  subject,  but  if  he  be  really  true  in  his  ren- 
dering of  this,  his  power  of  doing  more  will  be  perpetually 


176      MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


showing  itself  in  accessories  and  minor  points.  There  are 
few  men,  for  instance,  more  limited  in  subject  than  Hunt,  and 
yet  I  do  not  think  there  is  another  man  in  the  old  Water- 
Color  Society,  with  so  keen  an  eye  for  truth,  or  with  power 
so  universal.  And  this  is  the  reason  for  the  exceeding  prom- 
inence which  in  the  foregoing  investigation  one  or  two  artists 
have  always  assumed  over  the  rest,  for  the  habits  of  accurate 
observation  and  delicate  powers  of  hand  which  they  possess, 
have  equal  effect,  and  maintain  the  same  superiority  in  their 
works,  to  whatever  class  of  subject  they  may  be  directed. 
And  thus  we  have  been  compelled,  however  unwillingly,  to 
pass  hastily  by  the  works  of  many  gifted  men,  because,  how- 
ever pure  their  feeling,  or  original  their  conceptions,  they 
were  wanting  in  those  faculties  of  the  hand  and  mind  which 
insure  perfect  fidelity  to  nature  :  it  will  be  only  hereafter, 
when  we  are  at  liberty  to  take  full  cognizance  of  the  thought, 
however  feebly  it  may  be  clothed  in  language,  that  we  shall 
be  able  to  do  real  justice  to  the  disciples  either  of  modern 
or  of  ancient  art. 

But  as  far  as  we  have  gone  at  present,  and  with  respect  only 
to  the  material  truth,  which  is  all  that  we  have  been  able  to 
investigate,  the  conclusion  to  w^hich  we  must  be  led  is  as 
§  6.  General  con-  clear  as  it  is  inevitable  :  that  modern  artists,  as 

cl'jsionsto  be  de-  i  p   ^^    •       a     •  ' 

rived  from  our  a  body,  are  far  more  ]ust  and  full  in  their  views 
Son.  ^^^^^  of  material  things  than  any  landscape  painters 
whose  works  are  extant — but  that  J.  M.  W.  Turner  is  the 
only  man  who  has  ever  given  an  entire  transcript  of  the  whole 
system  of  nature,  and  is,  in  this  point  of  view,  the  only  per- 
fect landscape  painter  whom  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

Nor  are  we  disposed  to  recede  from  our  assertion  made  in 
Sec.  I.  Ch.  I.  §  10,  that  this  material  truth  is  indeed  a  per- 
fect test  of  the  relative  rank  of  painters,  though  it  does  not 
in  itself  constitute  that  rank.    We  shall  be  able 

§  7.     Truth,  a  ^  ,         -,  ,  ,  i    -,  i 

standard  of  all  to  prove  that  truth  and  beauty,  knowledge  and 

excellence.  .         •      ,  •         •         •  i  i  •   .    i  • 

imagination,  invariably  are  associated  in  art  ; 
and  we  shall  be  able  to  show  that  not  only  in  truth  to  nature, 
but  in  all  other  points,  Turner  is  the  greatest  landscape 
painter  who  has  ever  lived.  But  his  superiority  is,  in  matters 


MODERJSr  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM.  177 


of  feeling,  one  of  kind,  not  of  degree.  Superiority  of  degree 
implies  a  superseding  of  others,  superiority  of  kind  only  sus- 
taining a  more  important,  but  not  more  necessary  part,  than 
others.  If  truth  were  all  that  we  required  from  art,  all  other 
painters  might  cast  aside  their  brushes  in  despair,  for  all 
that  they  have  done  he  has  done  more  fully  and  accurately  ; 
but  when  we  pass  to  the  higher  requirements  of  art,  beauty 
and  character,  their  contributions  are  all  equally  necessary 
and  desirable,  because  different,  and  however  inferior  in 
position  or  rank,  are  still  perfect  of  their  kind  ;  their  infe- 
riority is  only  that  of  the  lark  to  the  nightingale,  or  of  the 
violet  to  the  rose. 

Such  then  is  the  rank  and  standing  of  our  modern  artists. 
We  have,  living  with  us,  and  painting  for  us,  the  greatest 
painter  of  all  time  ;  a  man  with  whose  supremacy  of  power 
no  intellect  of  past  ages  can  be  put  in  comparison  for  a  mo- 
ment. Let  us  next  inquire  what  is  the  rank  of  our  critics. 
§  8.  Modem  crit-  Pnblic  tastc,  I  bclievc,  as  far  as  it  is  the  en- 
Sf^ssoFpubjic  courager  and  supporter  of  art  has  been  the  same 
in  all  ages, — a  fitful  and  vacillating  current  of 
vague  impression,  perpetually  liable  to  change,  subject  to 
epidemic  desires,  and  agitated  by  infectious  passion,  the 
slave  of  fashion,  and  the  fool  of  fancy,  but  yet  always  dis- 
tinguishing with  singular  clearsightedness,  between  that 
which  is  best  and  that  which  is  worst  of  the  particular  class 
of  food  which  its  morbid  appetite  may  call  for  ;  never  failing 
to  distinguish  that  which  is  produced  by  intellect,  from  that 
which  is  not,  though  it  may  be  intellect  degraded  by  minis- 
§  9.  Yet  associat-  tering  to  its  misguided  will.  Public  taste  may 
degTe?  of^Yudg^  thus  degrade  a  race  of  men  capable  of  the  high- 
est  efforts  in  art  into  the  portrait  painters  of 
ephemeral  fashions,  but  it  will  yet  not  fail  of  discovering 
who,  among  these  portrait  painters,  is  the  man  of  most  mind. 
It  will  separate  the  man  who  would  have  become  Buonaroti 
from  the  man  who  would  have  become  Bandinelli,  though  it 
will  wnploy  both  in  painting  curl^,  and  feathers,  and  brace- 
lets. Hence,  generally  speaking,  there  is  no  comparative  in- 
justice done,  no  false  elevation  of  the  fotil  above  the  man  of 
Vol.  II.— 12 


178      MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


mind,  provided  only  that  the  man  of  mind  will  conde- 
scend to  supply  the  particular  article  which  the  public 
chooses  to  want.  Of  course  a  thousand  modifying  cir- 
cumstances interfere  with  the  action  of  the  general  rule  ; 
but,  taking  one  case  with  another,  twe  shall  very  con- 
stantly find  the  price  which  the  picture  commands  in  the 
market  a  pretty  fair  standard  of  the  artist's  rank  of  intellect. 
§10  Duty  of  the  '^^^  press,  therefore,  and  all  who  pretend  to 
press.  lead  the  public  taste,  have  not  so  much  to  direct 

the  multitude  whom  to  go  to,  as  what  to  ask  for.  Their 
business  is  not  to  tell  us  which  is  our  best  painter,  but  to 
tell  us  whether  we  are  making  our  best  painter  do  his  best. 

Now  none  are  capable  of  doing  this,  but  those  whose  prin- 
ciples of  judgment  are  based  both  on  thorough  practical 
knowledge  of  art,  and  on  broad  general  views  of  what  is  true 
§11.  Quaiifica-  and  right,  without  reference  to  what  has  been 
fm^disrhlTg-  done  at  one  time  or  another,  or  in  one  school  or 
"^s^*-  another.    Nothing  can  be  more  perilous  to  the 

cause  of  art,  than  the  constant  ringing  in  our  painters'  ears 
of  the  names  of  great  predecessors,  as  their  examples  or 
masters.  I  had  rather  hear  a  great  poet,  entirely  original  in 
his  feeling  and  aim,  rebuked  or  maligned  for  not  being  like 
Wordsworth  or  Coleridge,  than  a  great  painter  criticised  for 
not  putting  us  in  mind  of  Claude  or  Poussin.  But  such  ref- 
erences to  former  excellence  are  the  only  refuge  and  re- 
source of  persons  endeavoring  to  be  critics  without  being 
artists.  They  cannot  tell  you  whether  a  thing  is  right  or 
not  ;  but  they  can  tell  you  whether  it  is  like  something  else 
or  not.    And  the  whole  tone  of  modern  criticism 

§12.   General  in-  .     .  /.  i  . 

capability  of  — as  far  as  it  IS  worthy  oi  being  called  criticism 

modern  critics.  iY?-.ii  -xj.  j  ^'ij? 

— sumciently  shows  it  to  proceed  entirely  irom 
persons  altogether  unversed  in  practice,  and  ignorant  of 
truth,  but  possessing  just  enough  of  feeling  to  enjoy  the 
solemnity  of  ancient  art,  who,  not  distinguishing  that  which 
is  really  exalted  and  valuable  in  the  modern  school,  nor  hav- 
ing any  just  idea  of  the  real  ends  or  capabilities  of  lancj^cape 
art,  consider  nothing  right  which  is  not  based  on  the  con- 
ventional principles  of  the  ancients,  and  nothing  true  which 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM,  179 


has  more  of  nature  in  it  than  of  Claude.    But  it  is  strange 
that  while  the  noble  and  unequalled  works  of  modern  land- 
scape painters  are  thus  maliprned  and  misunder- 

§13.  Andincon-         ^  _        .     .        .       ^  ,  ^ 

sistency  with  stood,  our  historical  painters — such  as  we  have 
— are  permitted  to  pander  more  fatally  every 
year  to  the  vicious  English  taste,  which  can  enjoy  nothing  but 
what  is  theatrical,  entirely  unchastised,  nay,  encouraged  and 
lauded  by  the  very  men  who  endeavor  to  hamper  our  great 
landscape  painters  with  rules  derived  from  consecrated  blun- 
ders. The  very  critic  who  has  just  passed  one  of  the  noblest 
works  of  Turner — that  is  to  say,  a  masterpiece  of  art,  to 
which  Time  can  show  no  parallel — with  a  ribald  jest,  will  yet 
stand  gaping  in  admiration  before  the  next  piece  of  dramatic 
glitter  and  grimace,  suggested  by  the  society,  and  adorned 
with  the  appurtenances  of  the  greenroom,  which  he  finds 
hung  low  upon  the  wall  as  a  brilliant  example  of  the  ideal 
of  English  art.  It  is  natural  enough  indeed,  that  the  per- 
sons who  are  disgusted  by  what  is  pure  and  noble,  should  be 
delighted  with  what  is  vicious  and  degraded  ;  but  it  is  sin- 
gular that  those  who  are  constantly  talking  of  Claude  and 
Poussin,  should  never  even  pretend  to  a  thought  of  Raffaelle. 
We  could  excuse  them  for  not  comprehending  Turner,  if  they 
only  would  apply  the  same  cut-and-dried  criticisms  where 
they  might  be  applied  with  truth,  and  productive  of  benefit  ; 
but  w^e  endure  not  the  paltry  compound  of  ignorance,  false 
taste,  and  pretension,  which  assumes  the  dignity  of  classical 
feeling,  that  it  may  be  able  to  abuse  whatever  is  above  the 
level  of  its  understanding,  but  bursts  into  genuine  rapture 
with  all  that  is  meretricious,  if  sufficiently  adapted  to  the 
calibre  of  its  comprehension. 

To  notice  such  criticisms,  however,  is  giving  them  far  more 
importance  than  they  deserve.  They  can  lead  none  astray 
but  those  ;whose  opinions  are  absolutely  valueless,  and  we  did 
§  14.  How  the  begin  this  chapter  with  any  intent  of  wasting 
^^^advTnce  ^the  time  on  these  small  critics,  but  in  the  hope 
cause  of  art.  of  pointing  out  to  the  periodical  press  what  kind 
of  criticism  is  now  most  required  by  our  school  of  landscape 
art,  and  how  it  may  be  in  their  power,  if  they  will,  to  regulate 


180     MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


its  impulses,  without  checking  its  energies,  and  really  to  ad- 
Vance  both  the  cause  of  the  artist,  and  the  taste  of  the  public. 

One  of  the  most  morbid  symptoms  of  the  general  taste  of 
the  present  day,  is  a  too  great  fondness  for  unfinished  works. 
Brilliancy  and  rapidity  of  execution  are  everywhere  sought 
§  15.  Morbid  fond- highest  good,  and  so  that  a  picture  be 

ness  at  the  pres-  cleverly  handled  as  far  as  it  is  carried,  little  re- 
en  t  day  tor  un-  ^  ' 

finished  works,  gard  is  paid  to  its  imperfection  as  a  whole. 
Hence  some  artists  are  permitted,  and  others  compelled,  to 
confine  themselves  to  a  manner  of  working  altogether  destruc- 
tive of  their  powers,  and  to  tax  their  energies,  not  to  concen- 
trate the  greatest  quantity  of  thought  on  the  least  possible 
space  of  canvas,  but  to  produce  the  greatest  quantity  of  glit- 
ter and  claptrap  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  To  the  idler 
and  the  trickster  in  art,  no  system  can  be  more  advanta- 
geous ;  but  to  the  man  who  is  really  desirous  of  doing  some- 
thing worth  having  lived  for — to  a  man  of  industry,  energy, 
or  feeling,  we  believe  it  to  be  the  cause  of  the  most  bitter 
discouragement.  If  ever,  working  upon  a  favorite  subject 
or  a  beloved  idea,  he  is  induced  to  tax  his  powers  to  the  ut- 
most, and  to  spend  as  much  time  upon  his  picture  as  he  feels 
necessary  for  its  perfection,  he  will  not  be  able  to  get  so  high 
a  price  for  the  result,  perhaps,  of  a  twelvemonth's  thought, 
as  he  might  have  obtained  for  half-a-dozen  sketches  with  a 
forenoon's  work  in  each,  and  he  is  compelled  either  to  fall 
back  upon  mechanism,  or  to  starve.    Now  the  press  should 

especially  endeavor  to  convince  the  public,  that 
thepubiicdefraud  by  this  purchasc  of  imperfect  pictures  they  not 
themselves.  ^^|^  prevent  all  progress  and  development  of 
high  talent,  and  set  tricksters  and  mechanics  on  a  level  with 
men  of  mind,  but  defraud  and  injure  themselves.  For  there 
is  no  doubt  whatever,  that,  estimated  merely  by  the  quantity 
of  pleasure  it  is  capable  of  conveying,  a  well-finished  picture 
is  worth  to  its  possessor  half-a-dozen  incomplete  ones  ;  and 
§17.  And  in  pan-  "that  a  perfect  drawing  is,  simply  as  a  source  of 
SL^uin'them-  delight,  better  worth  a  hundred  guineas  than  a 

drawing  half  as  finished  is  worth  thirty.  On  the 
otlier  hand,  the  body  of  our  artists  should  be  kept  in  mind,  that 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM.  181 


by  indulging  the  public  with  rapid  and  unconsidered  work, 
they  are  not  only  depriving  themselves  of  the  benefit  which 
each  picture  ought  to  render  to  them,  as  a  piece  of  practice 
and  study,  but  they  are  destroying  the  refinement  of  general 
taste,  and  rendering  it  impossible  for  themselves  ever  to  find 
a  market  for  more  careful  works,  supposing  that  they  were 
inclined  to  execute  them.  Nor  need  any  single  artist  be 
afraid  of  setting  the  example,  and  producing  labored  works, 
at  advanced  prices,  among  the  cheap,  quick  drawings  of  the 
day.  The  public  will  soon  find  the  value  of  the  complete 
work,  and  will  be  more  ready  to  give  a  large  sum  for  that 
which  is  inexhaustible,  than  a  quota  of  it  for  that  which  they 
are  wearied  of  in  a  month.  The  artist  who  never  lets  the 
price  command  the  picture,  will  soon  find  the  picture  com- 
mand the  price.    And  it  ouorht  to  be  a  rule  with 

§  18.     Necessity  .\  .      i  4.  •   .  1 

of  finishing  works  every  painter  never  to  let  a  picture  leave  his 
of  art  perfectly,  ^^g^j  while  it  is  yet  Capable  of  improvement,  or 
of  having  more  thought  put  into  it.  The  general  effect  is 
often  perfect  and  pleasing,  and  not  to  be  improved  upon,  when 
the  details  and  facts  are  altogether  imperfect  and  unsatisfac- 
tory. It  may  be  difficult — perhaps  the  most  difficult  task  of 
art — to  complete  these  details,  and  not  to  hurt  the  general 
effect  ;  but  until  the  artist  can  do  this,  his  art  is  imperfect 
and  his  picture  unfinished.  That  only  is  a  complete  picture 
which  has  both  the  general  wholeness  and  effect  of  nature, 
and  the  inexhaustible  perfection  of  nature's  details.  And  it 
is  only  in  the  effort  to  unite  these  that  a  painter  really  im- 
proves. By  aiming  only  at  details,  he  becomes  a  mechanic  ; 
by  aiming  only  at  generals,  he  becomes  a  trickster  :  his  fall 
in  both  cases  is  sure.  Two  questions  the  artist  has,  therefore, 
always  to  ask  himself, — first,  "  Is  my  whole  right  ?  "  Secondly, 
Can  my  details  be  added  to  ?  Is  there  a  single  space  in  the 
picture  where  I  can  crowd  in  another  thought  ?  Is  there  a 
curve  in  it  which  I  can  modulate — a  line  which  I  can  graduate 
— a  vacancy  I  can  fill  ?  Is  there  a  single  spot  which  the  eye, 
by  any  peering  or  prying,  can  fathom  or  exhaust  ?  If  so,  my 
picture  is  imperfect  ;  and  if,  in  modulating  the  line  or  filling 
the  vacancy,  I  hurt  the  general  effect,  my  art  is  imperfect." 


182     MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


But,  on  the  other  hand,  though  incomplete  pictures  ought 
neither  to  be  produced  nor  purchased,  careful  and  real  sketches 
ought  to  be  valued  much  more  highly  than  they  are.  Studies 
in  chalk,  of  landscape,  should  form  a  part  of 

%Vi^.  Sketches  not  -r-i   i  -i  \  i       i  i  i  n 

sufficiently  en-  every  liixhibition,  and  a  room  should  be  allotted 
couraged.  drawings  and  designs  of  figures  in  the  Acad- 

emy. We  should  be  heartily  glad  to  see  the  room  vrhich  is 
now  devoted  to  bad  drawings  of  incorporeal  and  imaginary 
architecture — of  things  which  never  were,  and  which,  thank 
Heaven  !  never  will  be — occupied  instead,  by  careful  studies 
for  historical  pictures  ;  not  blots  of  chiaroscuro,  but  delicate 
outlines  with  the  pen  or  crayon. 

From  young  artists,  in  landscape,  nothing  ought  to  be  toler- 
ated but  simple  bona  fide  imitation  of  nature.  They  have 
no  business  to  ape  the  execution  of  masters, — to  utter  weak 
§  20.  Brilliancy  of  ^ud  disjointed  repetitions  of  other  men's  words, 
forTs^atTnvention  mimic  the  gcstuFcs  of  the  preacher,  without 
ed*^  i*n  young ^ar-  understanding  his  meaning  or  sharing  in  his  emo- 
*ists.  tions.    We  do  not  want  their  crude  ideas  of  com- 

position, their  unformed  conceptions  of  the  Beautiful,  their 
unsystematized  experiments  upon  the  Sublime.  We  scorn 
their  velocity  ;  for  it  is  without  direction  :  we  reject  their 
decision  ;  for  it  is  without  grounds  :  we  contemn  their  com- 
position ;  for  it  is  without  materials  :  we  reprobate  their 
choice  ;  for  it  is  without  comparison.  Their  duty  is  neither 
to  choose,  nor  compose,  nor  imagine,  nor  experimentalize  ; 
but  to  be  humble  and  earnest  in  following  the  steps  of  nature, 
and  tracing  the  finger  of  God.  Nothing  is  so  bad  a  symptom, 
in  the  work  of  young  artists,  as  too  much  dexterity  of  hand- 
ling ;  for  it  is  a  sign  that  they  are  satisfied  with  their  work, 
and  have  tried  to  do  nothing  more  than  they 
Lter'^^Llifges  of  wcrc  able  to  do.  Their  work  should  be  full  of 
all  students.  failures  ;  for  these  are  the  signs  of  efforts.  They 
should  keep  to  quiet  colors — grays  and  browns  ;  and,  making 
the  early  works  of  Turner  their  example,  as  his  latest  are  to 
be  their  object  of  emulation,  should  go  to  nature  in  all  single- 
ness of  heart,  and  walk  with  her  laboriously  and  trustingly, 
having  no  other  thoughts  but  how  best  to  penetrate  her  mean- 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM.  183 


ing,  and  remember  her  instruction,  rejecting  nothing,  select- 
ing nothing,  and  scorning  nothing  ;  believing  all  things  to 
be  right  and  good,  and  rejoicing  always  in  the  truth.  Then, 
when  their  memories  are  stored,  and  their  imaginations  fed, 
and  their  hands  firm,  let  them  take  up  the  scarlet  and  the 
gold,  give  the  reins  to  their  fancy,  and  show  us  what  their 
heads  are  made  of.  We  will  follow  them  wherever  they  choose 
to  lead  ;  we  will  check  at  nothing  ;  they  are  then  our  mas- 
ters, and  are  fit  to  be  so.  They  have  placed  themselves  above 
our  criticism,  and  we  will  listen  to  their  words  in  all  faith  and 
humility  ;  but  not  unless  they  themselves  have  before  bowed, 
in  the  same  submission,  to  a  higher  Authority  and  Master. 

Among  our  greater  artists,  the  chief  want,  at  the  present 
day,  is  that  of  solemnity  and  definite  purpose.  We  have  too 
much  picture-manufacturing,  too  much  making  up  of  lay 
§22.  Necessity  figurcs  with  a  Certain  quantity  of  foliage,  and  a 
3  Z  '™  certain  quantity  of  sky,  and  a  certain  quantity 
singleness  of  aim.  Water,— a  little  bit  of  all  that  is  pretty,  a 
little  sun,  and  a  little  shade, — a  touch  of  pink,  and  a  touch  of 
blue, — a  little  sentiment,  and  a  little  sublimity,  and  a  little 
humor,  and  a  little  antiquarianism, — all  very  neatly  associated 
in  a  very  charming  picture,  but  not  working  together  for  a 
definite  end.  Or  if  the  aim  be  higher,  as  was  the  case  with 
Barret  and  Varley,  we  are  generally  put  off  with  stale  repeti- 
tions of  eternal  composition  ;  a  great  tree,  and  some  goats, 
and  a  bridge  and  a  lake,  and  the  temple  at  Tivoli,  etc.  Now 
we  should  like  to  see  our  artists  working  out,  with  all  exer- 
tion of  their  concentrated  powers,  such  marked  pieces  of 
landscape  character  as  might  bear  upon  them  the  impres- 
sion of  solemn,  earnest,  and  pervading  thought,  definitely 
directed,  and  aided  by  every  accessory  of  detail,  color,  and 
idealized  form,  which  the  disciplined  feeling,  accumulated 
knowledge,  and  unspared  labor  of  the  painter  could  supply. 
I  have  alluded,  in  the  second  preface,  to  the  deficiency  of 
our  modern  artists  in  these  great  points  of  earnestness  and 
completeness  ;  and  I  revert  to  it,  in  conclusion,  as  their  para- 
mount failing,  and  one  fatal  in  many  ways  to  the  interests  of 
art.    Our  landscapes  are  all  descriptive,  not  reflective,  agree- 


184     MODEBlSr  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM, 


able  and  conversational,  but  not  impressive  nor  didactic. 
They  have  no  other  foundation  than 

' '  That  vivacious  versatility, 
Which  many  people  take  for  want  of  heart. 
They  err ;  'tis  merely  what  is  called  ^  mobility 
A  thing  of  temperament,  and  not  of  art^ 
Though  seeming  so  from  its  supposed  facility. 

This  makes  your  actors,  artists^  and  romancers ; 
Little  that's  great — but  much  of  what  is  clever." 

Only  it  is  to  be  observed  that — in  painters — this  vivacity 
is  not  always  versatile.  It  is  to  be  wished  that  it  were, 
but  it  is  no  such  easy  matter  to  be  versatile  in  painting. 
Shallowness  of  thought  insures  not  its  variety,  nor  rapidity 
of  production  its  originality.  Whatever  may  be  the  case  in 
literature,  facility  is  in  art  inconsistent  with  invention.  The 
artist  who  covers  most  canvas  always  shows,  even  in  the  sum 
of  his  works,  the  least  expenditure  of  thought.*  I  have 
never  seen  more  than  four  works  of  John  Lewis  on  the  walls 
of  the  Water-Color  Exhibition  ;  I  have  counted  forty  from 
other  hands  ;  but  have  found  in  the  end  that  the  forty  were 
a  multiplication  of  one,  and  the  four  a  concentration  of  forty. 
And  therefore  I  would  earnestly  plead  with  all  our  artists, 
that  they  should  make  it  a  law  never  to  repeat  themselves  ; 
for  he  who  never  repeats  himself  will  not  produce  an  in- 
ordinate number  of  pictures,  and  he  who  limits  himself  in 
number  gives  himself  at  least  the  opportunity  of  completion. 
Besides,  all  repetition  is  degradation  of  the  art ;  it  reduces 
it  from  headwork  to  handwork  ;  and  indicates  something 
like  a  persuasion  on  the  part  of  the  artist  that  nature  is  ex- 
haustible or  art  perfectible  ;  perhaps,  even,  by  him  exhausted 
and  perfected.  All  copyists  are  contemptible,  but  the  copyist 
of  himself  the  most  so,  for  he  has  the  worst  original. 

Let  then  every  picture  be  painted  with  earnest  intention 

*  Of  course  this  assertion  does  not  refer  to  the  differences  in  mode 
of  execution,  which  enable  one  painter  to  work  faster  or  slower  than 
another,  but  only  to  the  exertion  of  mind,  commonly  manifested  by 
the  artist,  according  i^s  he  is  sparing  or  prodigal  of  production. 


\ 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM,  185 


of  impressing  on  the  spectator  some  elevated  emotion,  and 
exhibiting  to  him  some  one  particular,  but  exalted,  beauty. 

Let  a  real  subject  be  carefully  selected,  in  itself 
be^tiSr^Vene^a^  suggcstive  of,  and  replete  with,  this  feeling  and 

beauty  ;  let  an  effect  of  light  and  color  be 
taken  which  may  harmonize  with  both  ;  and  a  sky,  not 
invented,  but  recollected,  (in  fact,  all  so-called  invention  is 
in  landscape  nothing  more  than  appropriate  recollection — 
good  in  proportion  as  it  is  distinct.)  Then  let  the  details  of 
the  foreground  be  separately  studied,  especially  those  plants 
which  appear  peculiar  to  the  place  :  if  any  one,  however 
unimportant,  occurs  there,  which  occurs  not  elsewhere,  it 
should  occupy  a  prominent  position  ;  for  the  other  details, 
the  highest  examples  of  the  ideal  forms  *  or  characters 

*  ''Talk  pf  improving  nature  when  it  is  nature — Nonsense. ''—^jE^.  F. 
Rippingille.  I  have  not  yet  spoken  of  the  difference — even  in  what  we 
commonly  call  Nature — between  imperfect  and  ideal  form  :  the  study 
of  this  difficult  question  must,  of  course,  be  deferred  until  we  have  ex- 
amined the  nature  of  our  impressions  of  beauty  ;  but  it  may  not  be  out 
of  place  here  to  hint  at  the  want  of  care  in  many  of  our  artists  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  real  work  of  nature  and  the  diseased  results  of 
man's  interference  with  her.  Many  of  the  works  of  our  greatest  artists 
have  for  their  subjects  nothing  but  hacked  and  hewn  remnants  of 
farm-yard  vegetation,  branded  root  and  branch,  from  their  birth,  by 
the  prong  and  the  pruning-hook ;  and  the  feelings  once  accustomed  to 
take  pleasure  in  such  abortions,  can  scarcely  become  perceptive  of 
forms  truly  ideal.  I  have  just  said  (182)  that  young  painters  should  go 
to  nature  trustingly, — rejecting  nothing,  and  selecting  nothing  :  so 
they  should ;  but  they  must  be  careful  that  it  is  nature  to  whom  they 
go — nature  in  her  liberty — not  as  servant- of -all-work  in  the  hands  of 
the  agriculturist,  nor  stiffened  into  court-dress  by  the  landscape  gar- 
dener. It  must  be  the  pure,  wild  volition  and  energy  of  the  creation 
which  they  follow — not  subdued  to  the  furrow,  and  cicatrized  to  the 
pollard— not  persuaded  into  proprieties,  nor  pampered  into  diseases. 
Let  them  work  by  the  torrent-side,  and  in  the  forest  shadows  ;  not  by 
purling  brooks  and  under  "  tonsile  shades."  It  is  impossible  to  enter 
here  into  discussion  of  what  man  can  or  cannot  do,  by  assisting  natural 
operations  :  it  is  an  intricate  question  :  nor  can  I,  without  anticipating 
what  I  shall  have  hereafter  to  advance,  show  how  or  why  it  happens 
that  the  racehorse  is  not  the  artist's  ideal  of  a  horse,  nor  a  prize  tulip 
his  ideal  of  a  flower  ;  but  so  it  is.  As  far  as  the  painter  is  concerned, 
man  never  touches  nature  but  to  spoil ; — he  operates  on  her  as  a  barber 


186     MOBEBN  ABT  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


which  he  requires  are  to  be  selected  by  the  artist  from  his 
former  studies,  or  fresh  studies  made  expressly  for  the  pur- 
pose, leaving  as  little  as  possible — nothing,  in  fact,  beyond 
their  connection  and  arrangement — to  mere  imagination. 
Finally,  when  his  picture  is  thus  perfectly  realized  in  all  its 
parts,  let  him  dash  as  much  of  it  out  as  he  likes  ;  throw,  if 
he  will,  mist  around  it — darkness — or  dazzling  and  confused 
light — whatever,  in  fact,  impetuous  feeling  or  vigorous  imag- 
ination may  dictate  or  desire  ;  the  forms,  once  so  laboriously 
realized,  will  come  out  whenever  they  do  occur  with  a  start- 
ling and  impressive  truth,  which  the  uncertainty  in  which  they 
are  veiled  will  enhance  rather  than  diminish  ;  and  the  imag- 
ination, strengthened  by  discipline  and  fed  with  truth,  will 
achieve  the  utmost  of  creation  that  is  possible  to  finite  mind. 

The  artist  who  thus  works  will  soon  find  that  he  cannot 
repeat  himself  if  he  would  ;  that  new  fields  of  exertion,  new 
subjects  of  contemplation  open  to  him  in  nature  day  by  day, 

would  on  the  Apollo ;  and  if  he  sometimes  increases  some  particular 
power  or  excellence, — strength  or  agility  in  the  animal — tallness,  or 
fruitfulness,  or  solidity  in  the  tree, — he  invariably  loses  that  balance  of 
good  qualities  which  is  the  chief  sign  of  perfect  specific  form ;  above 
all,  he  destroys  the  appearance  of  free  wlition  and  felicity,  which,  as  I 
shall  show  hereafter,  is  one  of  the  essential  characters  of  organic 
beauty.  Until,  however,  I  can  enter  into  the  discussion  of  the  nature 
of  beauty,  the  only  advice  I  can  safely  give  the  young  painter,  is  to 
keep  clear  of  clover-fields  and  parks,  and  to  hold  to  the  unpenetrated 
forest  and  the  un furrowed  hill.  There  he  will  find  that  every  influence 
is  noble,  even  when  destructive — that  decay  itself  is  beautiful, — and 
that,  in  the  elaborate  and  lovely  composition  of  all  things,  if  at  first 
sight  it  seems  less  studied  than  the  works  of  men,  the  appearance  of 
Art  is  only  prevented  by  the  presence  of  Power. 

' '  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her  :  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  ;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings." 

Wordsworth. 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM.  187 


and  that,  while  others  lament  the  weakness  of  their  inven- 
tion, he  has  nothing  to  lament  but  the  shortness  of  life. 

And  now  but  one  word  more,  respecting  the  great  artist 
whose  works  have  formed  the  chief  subject  of  this  treatise. 
All  the  greatest  qualities  of  those  works — all  that  is  mental 
§  24.  Duty  of  them,  has  not  yet  been  so  much  as  touched 
resp?cT^\o^  \he  ^poi^»  Nouc  but  their  lightest  and  least  essential 
works  of  Turner,  excellences  have  been  proved,  and,  therefore,  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  I  speak  of  them  must  necessarily  ap- 
pear overcharged  and  absurd.  It  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
\  more  prudent  to  have  withheld  the  full  expression  of  it  till  I 
had  shown  the  full  grounds  for  it  ;  but  once  written,  such 
expression  must  remain  till  I  have  justified  it.  And,  indeed, 
I  think  there  is  enough,  even  in  the  foregoing  pages,  to  show 
that  these  works  are,  as  far  as  concerns  the  ordinary  critics 
of  the  press,  above  all  animadversion,  and  above  all  praise  ; 
and  that,  by  the  public,  they  are  not  to  be  received  as  in  any 
way  subjects  or  matters  of  opinion,  but  of  Faith.  We  are  not 
to  approach  them  to  be  pleased,  but  to  be  taught  ;  not  to  form 
a  judgment,  but  to  receive  a  lesson.  Our  periodical  writers, 
therefore,  may  save  themselves  the  trouble  either  of  blaming 
or  praising  :  their  duty  is  not  to  pronounce  opinions  upon 
the  work  of  a  man  who  has  walked  with  nature  threescore 
years  ;  but  to  impress  upon  the  public  the  respect  with  which 
they  are  to  be  received,  and  to  make  request  to  him,  on  the 
part  of  the  people  of  England,  that  he  would  now  touch  no 
unimportant  work — that  he  would  not  spend  time  on  slight 
or  small  pictures,  but  give  to  the  nation  a  series  of  grand, 
consistent,  systematic,  and  completed  poems.  We  desire 
that  he  should  follow  out  his  own  thoughts  and  intents  of 
heart,  without  reference  to  any  human  authority.  But  we  re- 
quest, in  all  humility,  that  those  thoughts  may  be  seriously 
and  loftily  given  ;  and  that  the  whole  power  of  his  unequalled 
intellect  may  be  exerted  in  the  production  of  such  works  as 
may  remain  forever  for  the  teaching  of  the  nations.  In  all 
that  he  says,  we  believe  ;  in  all  that  he  does  we  trust."*  It 

*  It  has  been  hinted,  in  some  of  the  reviews  of  the  Second  Volume  of 
this  work,  that  the  writer's  respect  for  Turner  has  diminished  since  the 


188     MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM, 


is  therefore  that  we  pray  him  to  utter  nothing  lightly — to  do 
nothing  regardlessly.  He  stands  upon  an  eminence,  from 
which  he  looks  back  over  the  universe  of  God,  and  forward 
over  the  generations  of  men.  Let  every  work  of  his  hand  be 
a  history  of  the  one,  and  a  lesson  to  the  other.  Let  each  ex- 
ertion of  his  mighty  mind  be  both  hymn  and  prophecy, — 
adoration  to  the  Deity, — revelation  to  mankind. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

The  above  passage  was  written  in  the  year  1843  ;  too  late. 
It  is  true  that  soon  after  the  publication  of  this  work,  the 
abuse  of  the  press,  which  had  been  directed  against  Turner 
with  unceasing  virulence  during  the  production  of  his  noblest 
works,  sank  into  timid  animadversion,  or  changed  into  unin- 
telligent praise  ;  but  not  before  illness,  and,  in  some  degree, 
mortification,  had  enfeebled  the  hand  and  chilled  the  heart  of 
the  painter. 

This  year  (1851)  he  has  no  picture  on  the  walls  of  the 
Academy  ;  and  the  Times  of  May  3d  says,  "  We  miss  those 
works  of  INSPIRATION  !  " 

above  passage  was  written.  He  would,  indeed,  have  been  deserving  of 
little  attention  if,  with  the  boldness  manifested  on  the  preceding  pages, 
he  had  advanced  opinions  based  on  so  shallow  foundation  as  that  the 
course  of  three  years  could  affect  modification  of  them.  He  was  justi- 
fied by  the  sudden  accession  of  power  which  the  great  artist  exhibited 
at  the  period  when  this  volume  was  first  published,  as  well  as  by  the 
low  standard  of  the  criticism  to  which  he  was  subjected,  in  claiming, 
with  respect  to  his  then  works,  a  submission  of  judgment,  greater  in- 
deed than  may  generally  be  accorded  to  even  the  highest  human  intel- 
lect, yet  not  greater  than  such  a  master  might  legitimately  claim  from 
such  critics  ;  and  the  cause  of  the  peculiar  form  of  advocacy  into  which 
the  preceding  chapters  necessarily  fell,  has  been  already  stated  more 
than  once.  In  the  following  sections  it  became  necessary,  as  they 
treated  a  subject  of  intricate  relations,  and  peculiar  difficulty,  to  obtain 
a  more  general  view  of  the  scope  and  operation  of  art,  and  to  avoid  all 
conclusions  in  any  wise  referable  to  the  study  of  particular  painters. 
The  reader  will  therefore  find,  not  that  lower  rank  is  attributed  to  Tur- 
ner, but  that  he  is  now  compared  with  the  greatest  men,  and  occupies 
his  true  position  among  the  most  noble  of  all  time. 


MODERN  ART  AND  MODERN  CRITICISM. 


189 


We  miss  !  Who  misses  ? — The  populace  of  England  rolls 
by  to  weary  itself  in  the  great  bazaar  of  Kensington,  little 
thinking  that  a  day  will  come  when  those  veiled  vestals  and 
prancing  amazons,  and  goodly  merchandise  of  precious  stones 
and  gold,  will  all  be  forgotten  as  though  they  had  not  been, 
but  that  the  light  which  has  faded  from  the  walls  of  the 
Academy  is  one  which  a  million  of  Koh-i-Noors  could  not  re- 
kindle, and  that  the  year  1851  will  in  the  far  future  be  re- 
membered less  for  what  it  has  displayed  than  for  what  it  has 
withdrawn. 

Denmark  Hill,  June^  1851. 


PART  III 
OF  IDEAS  OF  BEAUTY. 


OF  THE  THEOEETIC  FACULTY. 


CHAPTER  L 

OF  THE  RANK  AND  RELATIONS  OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 

Although  the  hasty  execution  and  controversial  tone  of 
the  former  portions  of  this  essay  have  been  subjects  of  fre- 
quent regret  to  the  writer,  yet  the  one  was  in  some  measure 
§  1.  With  what  excusable  in  a  work  referred  to  a  temporary 
iXbl^'pproich-  end,  and  the  other  unavoidable,  in  one  directed 
against  particular  opinions.  Nor  are  either  of 
any  necessary  detriment  to  its  availableness  as  a  foundation 
for  more  careful  and  extended  survey,  in  so  far  as  its  province 
was  confined  to  the  assertion  of  obvious  and  visible  facts,  the 
verification  of  which  could  in  no  degree  be  dependent  either 
on  the  care  with  which  they  might  be  classed,  or  the  temper 
in  which  they  were  regarded.  Not  so  with  respect  to  the 
investigation  now  before  us,  which,  being  not  of  things  out- 
ward, and  sensibly  demonstrable,  but  of  the  value  and  mean- 
ing of  mental  impressions,  must  be  entered  upon  with  a 
modesty  and  cautiousness  proportioned  to  the  difficulty  of 
determining  the  likeness,  or  community  of  such  impressions, 
as  they  are  received  by  different  men,  and  with  seriousness 
proportioned  to  the  importance  of  rightly  regarding  those 


BANK  AND  BELATI0N8  OF  THEORETIC  FACULTY.  191 


faculties  over  which  we  have  moral  power,  and  therefore  in 
relation  to  which  we  assuredly  incur  a  moral  responsibility. 
There  is  not  the  thing  left  to  the  choice  of  man  to  do  or  not 
to  do,  but  there  is  some  sort  of  degree  of  duty  involved  in 
his  determination  ;  and  by  how  much  the  more,  therefore, 
our  subject  becomes  embarrassed  by  the  cross  influences  of 
variously  admitted  passion,  administered  discipline,  or  en- 
couraged affection,  upon  the  minds  of  men,  by  so  much  the 
more  it  becomes  matter  of  weight  and  import  to  observe  by 
what  laws  we  should  be  guided,  and  of  what  responsibilities 
regardful,  in  all  that  we  admit,  administer,  or  encourage. 

Nor  indeed  have  I  ever,  even  in  the  preceding  sections, 
spoken  with  levity,  though  sometimes  perhaps  with  rashness. 
I  have  never  treated  the  subject  as  other  than  demanding 
§  2  And  of  what  ^^^^^^^^  ^^^^  scHous  examination,  and  taking  high 
iniportance  con-  place  among  those  which  justify  as  they  reward 
our  utmost  ardor  and  earnestness  of  pursuit. 
That  it  justifies  them  must  be  my  present  task  to  prove  ;  that 
it  demands  them  has  never  been  doubted*  Art,  properly  so 
called,  is  no  recreation  ;  it  cannot  be  learned  at  spare  mo- 
ments, nor  pursued  when  we  have  nothing  better  to  do.  It 
is  no  handiwork  for  drawing-room  tables  ;  no  relief  of  the 
ennui  of  boudoirs  ;  it  must  be  understood  and  undertaken 
seriously  or  not  at  all.  To  advance  it  men's  lives  must  be 
given,  and  to  receive  it  their  hearts.  "  Le  peintre  Rubens  s' 
amuse  a  etre  ambassadeur,"  said  one  with  whom,  but  for  his 
own  words,  we  might  have  thought  that  effort  had  been  ab- 
sorbed in  power,  and  the  labor  of  his  art  in  its  felicity. — "  E 
faticoso  lo  studio  della  pittura,  et  sempre  si  fa  il  mare  mag- 
giore,"  said  he,  who  of  all  men  was  least  likely  to  have  left 
us  discouraging  report  of  anything  that  majesty  of  intellect 
could  grasp,  or  continuity  of  labor  overcome.*  But  that  this 
labor,  the  necessity  of  which  in  all  ages  has  been  most  frankly 
admitted  by  the  greatest  men,  is  justifiable  in  a  moral  point 
of  view,  that  it  is  not  the  pouring  out  of  men's  lives  upon 
the  ground,  that  it  has  functions  of  usefulness  addressed  to 


*  Tintoret.  (Ridolfi.  Vita.) 


192  OF  THE  BANK  AND  BELATI0N8  OF 


the  weightiest  of  human  interests,  and  that  the  objects  of  it 
have  calls  upon  us  which  it  is  inconsistent  alike  with  our  hu- 
man dignity  and  our  heavenward  duty  to  disobey — has  never 
been  boldly  asserted  nor  fairly  admitted  ;  least  of  all  is  it 
likely  to  be  so  in  these  days  of  dispatch  and  display,  where 
vanity,  on  the  one  side,  supplies  the  place  of  that  love  of  art 
which  is  the  only  effective  patronage,  and  on  the  other,  of 
the  incorruptible  and  earnest  pride  which  no  applause,  no 
reprobation,  can  blind  to  its  shortcomings  nor  beguile  of  its 
hope. 

And  yet  it  is  in  the  expectation  of  obtaining  at  least  a 
partial  acknowledgment  of  this,  as  a  truth  influential  both  of 
aim  and  conduct,  that  I  enter  upon  the  second  division  of 
my  subject.  The  time  I  have  already  devoted  to  the  task  I 
should  have  considered  altogether  inordinate,  and  that  which 
I  fear  may  be  yet  required  for  its  completion  would  have 
been  cause  to  me  of  utter  discouragement,  but  that  the  ob- 
ject I  propose  to  myself  is  of  no  partial  nor  accidental  im- 
portance. It  is  not  now  to  distinguish  between  disputed 
degrees  of  ability  in  individuals,  or  agreeableness  in  can- 
vases, it  is  not  now  to  expose  the  ignorance  or  defend  the 
principles  of  party  or  person.  It  is  to  summon  the  moral 
energies  of  the  nation  to  a  forgotten  duty,  to  display  the  use, 
force,  and  function  of  a  great  body  of  neglected  sympathies 
and  desires,  and  to  elevate  to  its  healthy  and  beneficial  oper- 
ation that  art  which,  being  altogether  addressed  to  them, 
rises  or  falls  with  their  variableness  of  vigor, — now  leading 
them  with  Tyrtsean  fire,  now  singing  them  to  sleep  with  baby 
murmurings. 

Only  as  I  fear  that  with  many  of  us  the  recommendation 
of  our  own  favorite  pursuits  is  rooted  more  in  conceit  of  our- 
selves, than  affection  towards  others,  so  that  sometimes  in 
our  very  pointinsr  of  the  way,  we  had  rather 

§  3.    The  doubt-     ,         ,  *^  .  ^    .  «   .       ,       ^  V^         .     .      i  , , 

fill  force  of  the  that  the  intricacy  oi  it  should  be  admired  than 
term  utility,  enfolded,  whence  a  natural  distrust  of  such 
recommendation  may  well  have  place  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  have  not  yet  perceived  any  value  in  the  thing  praised, 
and  because  also,  men  in  the  present  century  understand  the 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


193 


word  Useful  in  a  strange  way,  or  at  least  (for  the  word  has 
been  often  so  accepted  from  the  beginning  of  time)  since  in 
these  days,  they  act  its  more  limited  meaning  farther  out, 
and  give  to  it  more  practical  weight  and  authority,  it  will  be 
well  in  the  outset  that  I  define  exactly  what  kind  of  utility  I 
mean  to  attribute  to  art,  and  especially  to  that  branch  of  it 
which  is  concerned  with  those  impressions  of  external  beauty 
whose  nature  it  is  our  present  object  to  discover. 

That  is  to  everything  created,  pre-eminently  useful,  which 
enables  it  rightly  and  fully  to  perform  the  functions  ap- 
pointed to  it  by  its  Creator.  Therefore,  that  we  may  de- 
§  4  Its  proper  termine  what  is  chiefly  useful  to  man,  it  is  nec- 
s®^^^®-  essary  first  to  determine  the  use  of  man  himself. 

Man's  use  and  function  (and  let  him  who  will  not  grant 
me  this  follow  me  no  farther,  for  this  I  propose  always  to  as- 
sume) is  to  be  the  witness  of  the  glory  of  God,  and  to  ad- 
vance that  glory  by  his  reasonable  obedience  and  resultant 
happiness. 

Whatever  enables  us  to  fulfil  this  function,  is  in  the  pure 
and  first  sense,  of  the  word  useful  to  us.  Pre-eminently 
therefore  whatever  sets  the  glory  of  God  more  brightly  be- 
fore us.  But  things  that  only  help  us  to  exist,  are  in  a  sec- 
ondary and  mean  sense,  useful,  or  rather,  if  they  be  looked 
for  alone,  they  are  useless  and  worse,  for  it  would  be  better 
that  we  should  not  exist,  than  that  we  should  guiltily  disap- 
point the  purposes  of  existence. 

And  yet  people  speak  in  this  working  age,  when  they 
speak  from  their  hearts,  as  if  houses,  and  lands,  and  food, 
and  raiment  were  alone  useful,  and  as  if  sight,  thought,  and 
X.         ,    admiration  *  were  all  profitless,  so  that  men  in- 

§  5.  How  falsely  '  ... 

applied  in  these  solently  Call  themsclves  Utilitarians,  who  would 
turn,  if  they  had  their  way,  themselves  and  their 
race  into  vegetables  ;  men  who  think,  as  far  as  such  can  be 
said  to  think,  that  the  meat  is  more  than  the  life,  and  the 
raiment  than  the  body,  who  look  to  the  earth  as  a  stable,  and 
to  its  fruit  as  fodder  ;  vinedressers  and  husbandmen,  who 


*  We  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love.    (Excursion,  Book  IV.) 
Vol  II.— 13 


194         OF  THE  BANK  AND  RELATIONS  OF 


love  the  corn  they  grind,  and  the  grapes  they  crush,  better 
than  the  gardens  of  the  angels  upon  the  slopes  of  Eden  ; 
hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  who  think  that  the 
wood  they  hew  and  the  water  they  draw,  are  better  than 
the  pine-forests  that  cover  the  mountains  like  the  shadow 
of  God,  and  than  the  great  rivers  that  move  like  his  eternity. 
And  so  comes  upon  us  that  woe  of  the  preacher,  that  though 
God  "  hath  made  everything  beautiful  in  his  time,  also  he 
hath  set  the  world  in  their  heart,  so  that  no  man  can  find  out 
the  work  that  God  maketh  from  the  beginning  to  the  end." 

This  Nebuchadnezzar  curse,  that  sends  us  to  grass  like 
oxen,  seems  to  follow  but  too  closely  on  the  excess  or  con- 
tinuance of  national  power  and  peace.  In  the  perplexities  of 
§  6.  The  evil  con-  nations,  in  their  struggles  for  existence,  in 
inteTpTeta^ticTn^  their  infancy,  their  impotence,  or  even  their 
S'natfonli  disorganization,  they  have  higher  hopes  and 
power.  nobler  passions.    Out  of  the  suffering  comes 

the  serious  mind  ;  out  of  the  salvation,  the  grateful  heart  ; 
out  of  the  endurance,  the  fortitude  ;  out  of  the  deliver- 
ance, the  faith  ;  but  now  when  they  have  learned  to  live 
under  providence  of  laws,  and  with  decency  and  justice  of 
regard  for  each  other ;  and  when  they  have  done  away  with 
violent  and  external  sources  of  suffering,  worse  evils  seem 
arising  out  of  their  rest,  evils  that  vex  less  and  mortify 
more,  that  suck  the  blood  though  they  do  not  shed  it,  and 
ossify  the  heart  though  they  do  not  torture  it.  And  deep 
though  the  causes  of  thankfulness  must  be  to  every  people 
at  peace  with  others  and  at  unity  in  itself,  there  are  causes 
of  fear  also,  a  fear  greater  than  of  sword  and  sedition  ;  that 
dependence  on  God  may  be  forgotten  because  the  bread  is 
given  and  the  water  is  sure,  that  gratitude  to  him  may  cease 
because  his  constancy  of  protection  has  taken  the  semblance 
of  a  natural  law,  that  heavenly  hope  may  grow  faint  amidst 
the  full  fruition  of  the  world,  that  selfishness  may  take  place 
of  undemanded  devotion,  compassion  be  lost  in  vain-glory, 
and  love  in  dissimulation,*  that  enervation  may  succeed  to 


*  Rom.  xii.  9. 


THE  THEOBETIG  FACULTY. 


195 


strength,  apathy  to  patience,  and  the  noise  of  jesting  words 
and  foulness  of  dark  thoughts,  to  the  earnest  purity  of  the 
girded  loins  and  the  burning  lamp.  About  the  river  of 
human  life  there  is  a  wintry  wind,  though  a  heavenly  sun- 
shine ;  the  iris  colors  its  agitation,  the  frost  fixes  upon  its 
repose.  Let  us  beware  that  our  rest  become  not  the  rest  of 
stones,  which  so  long  as  they  are  torrent-tossed,  and  thunder- 
stricken,  maintain  their  majesty,  but  when  the  stream  is 
silent,  and  the  storm  passed,  suffer  the  grass  to  cover  them 
and  the  lichen  to  feed  on  them,  and  are  ploughed  down  into 
dust. 

And  though  I  believe  that  we  have  salt  enough  of  ardent 
and  holy  mind  amongst  us  to  keep  us  in  some  measure  from 
this  moral  decay,  yet  the  signs  of  it  must  be  watched  with 
§  7  How  to  be  anxiety,  in  all  matter  however  trivial,  in  all 
averted.  directions  however  distant.    And  at  this  time, 

when  the  iron  roads  are  tearing  up  the  surface  of  Europe,  as 
grape-shot  do  the  sea,  when  their  great  sagene  is  drawing 
and  twitching  the  ancient  frame  and  strength  of  England 
together,  contracting  all  its  various  life,  its  rocky  arms  and 
rural  heart,  into  a  narrow,  finite,  calculating  metropolis  of 
manufactures,  when  there  is  not  a  monument  throughout  the 
cities  of  Europe,  that  speaks  of  old  years  and  mighty 
people,  but  it  is  being  swept  away  to  build  cafes  and 
gaming-houses  ;  *  when  the  honor  of  God  is  thought  to  con- 

*  The  extent  of  ravage  among  works  of  art,  or  of  historical  interest, 
continually  committiDg  throughout  the  continent  may,  perhaps,  be  in 
some  measure  estimated  from  the  following  facts,  to  which  the  ex- 
perience of  every  traveller  may  add  indefinitely : 

At  Beauvois — The  magnificent  old  houses  supported  on  columns  of 
workmanship  (so  far  as  I  recollect)  unique  in  the  north  of  France,  at 
the  corner  of  the  market-place,  have  recently  been  destroyed  for  the 
enlarging  of  some  ironmongery  and  grocery  warehouses.  The  arch 
across  the  street  leading  to  the  cathedral  has  been  destroyed  also,  for 
what  purpose,  I  know  not. 

At  Rouen — The  last  of  the  characteristic  houses  on  the  quay  is  now 
disappearing.  When  I  was  last  there,  I  witnessed  the  destruction  of 
the  noble  gothic  portal  of  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  whose  position 
interfered  with  the  courtyard  of  an  hotel ;  the  greater  part  of  the 
ancient  churches  are  used  as  smithies,  or  warehouses  for  goods.  So 


196  OF  THE  RANK  AND  RELATIONS  OF 


gist  in  the  poverty  of  his  temple,  and  the  column  is  short- 
ened, and  the  pinnacle  shattered,  the  color  denied  to  the 
casement,  and  the  marble  to  the  altar,  while  exchequers  are 

also  at  Tours  (St.  Julien).  One  of  the  most  interesting  and  superb 
pieces  of  middle-age  domestic  architecture  in  Europe,  opposite  the  west 
front  of  the  cathedral,  is  occupied  as  a  cafe,  and  its  lower  story  con- 
cealed by  painted  wainscotings  ;  representing,  if  I  recollect  right,  two- 
penny rolls  surrounded  by  circles  of  admiring  cherubs. 

At  Geneva — The  wooden  projections  or  loggias  which  were  once  the 
characteristic  feature  of  the  city,  have  been  entirely  removed  within 
the  last  ten  years. 

At  Pisa — The  old  Baptistery  is  at  this  present  time  in  process  of  being 

restored,"  that  is,  dashed  to  pieces,  and  common  stone  painted  black 
and  varnished,  substituted  for  its  black  marble.  In  the  Campo  Santo, 
the  invaluable  frescoes,  which  might  be  protected  by  merely  glazing  the 
arcades,  are  left  exposed  to  wind  and  weather.  While  I  was  there  last 
year  I  saw  a  monument  put  up  against  the  lower  part  of  the  wall,  to 
some  private  person ;  the  bricklayers  knocked  out  a  large  space  of  the 
lower  brickwork,  with  what  beneficial  effect  to  the  loose  and  blistered 
stucco  on  which  the  frescoes  are  painted  above,  I  leave  the  reader  to 
imagine  ;  inserted  the  tablet,  and  then  plastered  over  the  marks  of  the 
insertion,  destroying  a  portion  of  the  border  of  one  of  the  paintings. 
The  greater  part  of  Giotto's  "Satan  before  God,"  has  been  destroyed 
by  the  recent  insertion  of  one  of  the  beams  of  the  roof. 

The  tomb  of  Antonio  Puccinello,  which  was  the  last  actually  put  up 
against  the  frescoes,  and  which  destroyed  the  terminal  subject  of  the 
Giotto  series,  bears  date  1808. 

It  has  been  proposed  (or  at  least  it  is  so  reported)  that  the  church  of 
La  Spina  should  be  destroyed  in  order  to  widen  the  quay. 

At  Florence — One  of  the  most  important  and  characteristic  streets, 
that  in  which  stands  the  church  of  Or  San  Michele,  has  been  within  the 
last  five  years  entirely  destroyed  and  rebuilt  in  the  French  style ;  con- 
sisting now  almost  exclusively  of  shops  of  bijouterie  and  parfumerie. 
Owing  to  this  direction  of  public  funds,  the  fronts  of  the  Duomo,  Santa 
Croce,  St.  Lorenzo,  and  half  the  others  in  Florence  remain  in  their 
original  bricks. 

The  old  refectory  of  Santa  Croce,  containing  an  invaluable  Cenacolo, 
if  not  by  Giotto,  at  least  one  of  the  finest  works  of  his  school,  is  used  as 
a  carpet  manufactory.  In  order  to  see  the  fresco,  I  had  to  get  on  the 
top  of  a  loom.  The  cenacolo  (of  Eaffaelle  ?)  recently  discovered,  I  saw 
when  the  refectory  it  adorns  was  used  as  a  coach-house.  The  fresco, 
which  gave  Raffaelle  the  idea  of  the  Christ  of  the  Transfiguration,  is  in 
an  old  wood  shed  at  San  Miniato,  concealed  behind  a  heap  of  faggots. 
In  June,  last  year,  I  saw  Gentile  de  Fabriano's  picture  of  the  Adora* 


TEE  THEORETIC  FACULTY.  197 

exhausted  in  luxury  of  boudoirs,  and  pride  of  reception- 
rooms  ;  when  we  ravage  without  a  pause  all  the  loveliness  of 
creation  which  God  in  giving  pronounced  good,  and  destroy 
without  a  thought  all  those  labors  which  men  have  given  their 
lives,  and  their  sons'  sons'  lives  to  complete,  and  have  left 
for  a  legacy  to  all  their  kind,  a  legacy  of  more  than  their 
hearts'  blood,  for  it  is  of  their  souls'  travail,  there  is  need, 
bitter  need,  to  bring  back,  if  we  may,  into  men's  minds,  that 
to  live  is  nothing,  unless  to  live  be  to  know  Him  by  whom 
we  live,  and  that  he  is  not  to  be  known  by  marring  his  fair 
works,  and  blotting  out  the  evidence  of  his  influences  upon 
his  creatures,  not  amid  the  hurry  of  crowds  and  crash  of  in- 
novation, but  in  solitary  places,  and  out  of  the  glowing  in- 

tion  of  the  Magi,  belonging  to  the  Academy  of  Florence,  put  face  up- 
most in  a  shower  of  rain  in  an  open  cart ;  on  my  suggesting  the  possi- 
bility of  the  rain  hurting  it,  an  old  piece  of  matting  was  thrown  over 
its  face,  and  it  was  wheeled  away  *'per  essere  pulita."  What  fate  this 
signified,  is  best  to  be  discovered  from  the  large  Perugino  in  the 
Academy  ;  whose  divine  distant  landscape  is  now  almost  concealed  by 
the  mass  of  French  ultramarine,  painted  over  it  apparently  with 
a  common  house  brush,  by  the  picture  cleaner. 

Not  to  detain  the  reader  by  going  through  the  cities  of  Italy,  I  will 
only  further  mention,  that  at  Padua,  the  rain  beats  through  the  west 
window  of  the  Arena  chapel,  and  runs  down  over  the  frescoes.  That  at 
Venice,  in  September  last,  I  saw  three  buckets  set  in  the  scuola  di  San 
Kocco  to  catch  the  rain  which  came  through  the  canvases  of  Tintoret  on 
the  roof ;  and  that  while  the  old  works  of  art  are  left  thus  unprotected, 
the  palaces  are  being  restored  in  the  following  modes.  The  English 
residents  knock  out  bow  windows  to  see  up  and  down  the  canal.  The 
Italians  paint  all  the  marble  white  or  cream  color,  stucco  the  fronts, 
and  paint  them  in  blue  and  white  stripes  to  imitate  alabaster.  (This 
has  been  done  with  Danieli's  hotel,  with  the  north  angle  of  the  church 
of  St.  Mark,  there  replacing  the  real  alabasters  which  have  been  torn 
down,  with  a  noble  old  house  in  St.  Mark's  place,  and  with  several  in 
the  narrow  canals.)  The  marbles  of  St.  Mark's,  and  carvings,  are 
being  scraped  down  to  make  them  look  bright — the  lower  arcade  of  the 
Doge's  palace  is  whitewashed — the  entrance  porch  is  being  restored — 
the  operation  having  already  proceeded  so  far  as  the  knocking  off  of  the 
heads  of  the  old  statues — an  iron  railing  painted  black  and  yellow  has 
been  put  round  the  court.  Faded  tapestries,  and  lottery  tickets  (the 
latter  for  the  benefit  of  charitable  institutions)  are  exposed  for  sale  in 
the  council  chambers. 


198 


OF  THE  RANK  AND  RELATIONS  OF 


telligences  which  he  gave  to  men  of  old.  He  did  not  teach 
them  how  to  build  for  glory  and  for  beauty,  he  did  not  give 
them  the  fearless,  faithful,  inherited  energies  that  worked  on 
and  down  from  death  to  death,  generation  after  generation, 
that  we,  foul  and  sensual  as  we  are,  might  give  the  carved 
work  of  their  poured-out  spirit  to  the  axe  and  the  hammer  ; 
he  has  not  cloven  the  earth  with  rivers,  that  their  white  wild 
waves  might  turn  wheels  and  push  paddles,  nor  turned  it  up 
under  as  it  were  fire,  that  it  might  heat  wells  and  cure 
diseases  ;  he  brings  not  up  his  quails  by  the  east  wind,  only 
to  let  them  fall  in  flesh  about  the  camp  of  men  :  he  has  not 
heaped  rocks  of  the  mountain  only  for  the  quarry,  nor 
clothed  the  grass  of  the  field  only  for  the  oven. 

All  science  and  all  art  may  be  divided  into  that  which  is  sub- 
^  servient  to  life,  and  which  is  the  obiect  of  it. 

§  8.  Division  of  ,         '       .  ,  , 

the  pursuits  of  As  subservicnt  to  life,  or  practical,  their  results 

men  into  subser-  .  /?  j  i?  i 

vientand  objec-  are,  in  the  common  sense  oi  the  word,  useiul. 
*^^^*  ,  As  the  object  of  life  or  theoretic,  they  are,  in 

the  common  sense,  useless  ;  and  yet  the  step  between  prac- 
tical and  theoretic  science  is  the  step  between  the  miner  and 
the  geologist,  the  apothecary  and  the  chemist  ;  and  the  step 
between  practical  and  theoretic  art  is  that  between  the  brick- 
layer and  the  architect,  between  the  plumber  and  the  artist, 
and  this  is  a  step  allowed  on  all  hands  to  be  from  less  to 
greater  ;  so  that  the  so-called  useless  part  of  each  profession 
does  by  the  authoritative  and  right  instinct  of  mankind  as- 
sume the  superior  and  more  noble  place,  even  though  books 
be  sometimes  written,  and  that  by  writers  of  no  ordinary 
mind,  which  assume  that  a  chemist  is  rewarded  for  the  years 
of  toil  which  have  traced  the  greater  part  of  the  combina- 
tions of  matter  to  their  ultimate  atoms,  by  discovering  a 
cheap  way  of  refining  sugar,  and  date  the  eminence  of  the 
philosopher,  whose  life  has  been  spent  in  the  investigation 
of  the  laws  of  light,  from  the  time  of  his  inventing  an  im- 
provement in  spectacles. 

But  the  common  consent  of  men  proves  and  accepts  the 
proposition,  that  whatever  part  of  any  pursuit  ministers  to 
the  bodily  comforts,  and  admits  of  material  uses,  is  ignoble, 


THE  TIIEOEETIG  FACULTY. 


199 


and  whatsoever  part  is  addressed  to  the  mind  only,  is  noble; 
and  that  geology  does  better  in  reclothing  dry  bones  and  re- 
vealing lost  creations,  than  in  tracing  veins  of  lead  and  beds 
of  iron  ;  astronomy  better  in  opening  to  us  the  houses  of 
heaven  than  in  teaching  navigation  ;  botany  better  in  dis- 
playing structure  than  in  expressing  juices  ;  surgery  better 
in  investigating  organization  than  in  setting  limbs  ;  only  it 
is  ordained  that,  for  our  encouragement,  every  s^^p  we  make 
in  the  more  exalted  range  of  science  adds  something  also  to 
its  practical  applicabilities  ;  that  all  the  great  phenomena  of 
nature,  the  knowledge  of  which  is  desired  by  the  angels  only, 
by  us  partly,  as  it  reveals  to  farther  vision  the  being  and  the 
glory  of  Him  in  whom  they  rejoice  and  we  live,  dispense  yet 
such  kind  influences  and  so  much  of  material  blessing  as  to 
be  joyfully  felt  by  all  inferior  creatures,  and  to  be  desi^^  by 
them  with  such  single  desire  as  the  imperfection  of  theiWiat- 
ure  may  admit  ;  *  that  the  strong  torrents  which,  in  their 
own  gladness  fill  the  hills  with  hollow  thunder  and  the  vales 
with  winding  light,  have  yet  their  bounden  charge  of  field 
to  feed  and  barge  to  bear  ;  that  the  fierce  flames  to  which 
the  Alp  owes  its  upheaval  and  the  volcano  its  terror,  tem- 
per for  us  the  metal  vein  and  quickening  spring  ;  and  that 
for  our  incitement,  I  say  not  our  reward,  for  knowledge  is 
its  own  reward,  herbs  have  their  healing,  stones  their  pre- 
ciousness,  and  stars  their  times. 

It  would  appear,  therefore,  that  those  pursuits  which 
§  9.  Their  reia-  3,re  altogether  theoretic,  whose  results  are  de- 
tive  dignities.  sirable  or  admirable  in  themselves  and  for  their 
own  sake,  and  in  which  no  farther  end  to  which  their  pro- 
ductions or  discoveries  are  referred,  can  interrupt  the  con- 
templation of  things  as  they  are,  by  the  endeavor  to  discover 
of  what  selfish  uses  they  are  capable  (and  of  this  order  are 
§10.  How  re-  painting  and  sculpture),  ought  to  take  rank 
eSng  notions  of  above  all  pursuits  which  have  any  taint  in  them 
tWeanHmagin-  subserviency  to  life,  in  so  far  as  all  such  ten- 
ative  faculties.     dency  is  the  sign  of  less  eternal  and  less  holy 


*  Hooker,  Eccl.  Pol.  Book  I.  chap.  ii.  §  3. 


200  OF  THE  BANK  AND  RELATIONS 


function.*  And  such  rank  these  two  sublime  arts  would  in- 
deed assume  in  the  minds  of  nations,  and  become  objects  of 
corresponding  efforts,  but  for  two  fatal  and  widespread  er- 
rors respecting  the  great  faculties  of  mind  concerned  in  them. 

The  first  of  these,  or  the  theoretic  faculty,  is  concerned 
with  the  moral  perception  and  appreciation  of  ideas  of  beauty. 
And  the  error  respecting  it  is  the  considering  and  calling  it 
aesthetic,  d%rading  it  to  a  mere  operation  of  sense,  or  per- 
haps worse,  of  custom,  so  that  the  arts  which  appeal  to  it 
sink  into  a  mere  amusement,  ministers  to  morbid  sensibili- 
ties, ticklers  and  fanners  of  the  soul's  sleep. 

The  second  great  faculty  is  the  imaginative,  which  the 
mind  exercises  in  a  certain  mode  of  regarding  or  combining 
the  ideas  it  has  received  from  external  nature,  and  the  oper- 
atio^^of  which  become  in  their  turn  objects  of  the  theoretic 
facif^  to  other  minds. 

And  the  error  respecting  this  faculty  is,  that  its  function 
is  one  of  falsehood,  that  its  operation  is  to  exhibit  things  as 
they  are  noty  and  that  in  so  doing  it  mends  the  works  of 
God. 

Now,  as  these  are  the  two  faculties  to  which  I  shall  have 
occasion  constantly  to  refer  during  that  examination  of  the 
ideas  of  beauty  and  relation  on  which  we  are  now  entering, 
§  11.  Object  of  because  it  is  only  as  received  and  treated  by 
tion.  these,  that  those  ideas  become  exalted  and  profit- 

able, it  becomes  necessary  for  me,  in  the  outset,  to  explain 
their  power  and  define  their  sphere,  and  to  vindicate,  in  the 

*  I  do  not  assert  that  the  accidental  utility  of  a  theoretic  pursuit,  as  of 
botany  for  instance,  in  any  way  degrades  it,  though  it  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  elevating  it.  But  essential  utility,  a  purpose  to  which  the 
pursuit  is  in  some  measure  referred,  as  in  architecture,  invariably  de- 
grades, because  then  the  theoretic  part  of  the  art  is  comparatively  lost 
sight  of ;  and  thus  architecture  takes  a  level  below  that  of  sculpture 
or  painting,  even  when  the  powers  of  mind  developed  in  it  are  of  the 
same  high  order. 

When  we  pronounce  the  name  of  Giotto,  our  venerant  thoughts  are 
at  Assisi  and  Padua,  before  they  climb  the  Campanile  of  Santa  Maria 
del  Fiore.  And  he  who  would  raise  the  ghost  of  Michael  Ang:^lo,  must 
haunt  the  Sistine  and  Sb.  Lorenzo,  not  St.  Peter's. 


OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


201 


system  of  our  nature,  their  true  place  for  the  intellectual 
lens  and  moral  retina  by  which  and  on  which  our  informing 
thoughts  are  concentrated  and  represented. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OF    THE  THEORETIC    FACULTY  AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEAS- 
URES OF  SENSE. 

I  PROCEED  therefore  first,  to  examine  the  nature  of  what 
§1  Explanation  ^^^^  Called  the  Theoretic  faculty,  and  to  jus- 
of  the  term  "the-  tifv  mv  Substitution  of  the  term  "  theoretic  "  for 

oretic,"  . 

aesthetic,  which  is  the  one  commonly  employed 
with  reference  to  it. 

Now  the  term  "  sesthesis  "  properly  signifies  mere  sensual 
perception  of  the  outward  qualities  and  necessary  effects  of 
bodies,  in  which  sense  only,  if  we  would  arrive  at  any  accu- 
rate conclusions  on  this  difficult  subject,  it  should  always  be 
used.  But  I  wholly  deny  that  the  impressions  of  beauty  are 
in  any  way  sensual, — they  are  neither  sensual  nor  intellect- 
ual, but  moral,  and  for  the  faculty  receiving  them,  whose  dif- 
ference from  mere  perception  I  shall  immediately  endeavor 
to  explain,  no  term  can  be  more  accurate  or  convenient  than 
that  employed  by  the  Greeks,  "  theoretic,"  which  I  pray  per- 
mission, therefore,  always  to  use,  and  to  call  the  operation  of 
the  faculty  itself,  Theoria. 

Let  us  begin  at  the  lowest  point,  and  observe,  first,  what 
§  2.  01  the  dif-  differences  of  dignity  may  exist  between  dif- 
i^'^Xasurer'ilf  ferent  kinds  of  aesthetic  or  sensual  pleasure, 
sense.  properly  so  called. 

Now  it  is  evident  that  the  being  common  to  brutes,  or  pe- 
culiar to  man,  can  alone  be  no  rational  test  of  inferiority,  or 
dignity  in  pleasures.  We  must  not  assume  that  man  is  the 
nobler  animal,  and  then  deduce  the  nobleness  of  his  delights  ; 
but  we  must  prove  the  nobleness  of  the  delights,  and  thence 
the  nobleness  of  the  animal.    The  dignity  of  affection  is  no 


202  OF  THE  THEOBETIG  FACULTY 


way  lessened  because  a  large  measure  of  it  may  be  found  in 
lower  animals,  neither  is  the  vileness  of  gluttony  and  lust 
abated  because  they  are  common  to  men.  It  is  clear,  there- 
fore, that  there  is  a  standard  of  dignity  in  the  pleasures  and 
passions  themselves,  by  which  we  also  class  the  creatures  ca- 
pable of,  or  suffering  them. 

The  first  great  distinction,  we  observe,  is  that  noted  of 
Aristotle,  that  men  are  called  temperate  and  intemperate 
with  regard  to  some,  and  not  so  with  respect  to  others,  and 
that  those,  with  respect  to  which  they  are  so 

§3.    Use  of  the  \  ^  ,    i  ,  , 

terms  Temperate  called,  are,  by  common  consent,  held  to  be  the 

and  Intemperate,   ^-j^g^^      But  Aristotlc,  thoUgh  CXquisitcly  Subtlc 

in  his  notation  of  facts,  does  not  frequently  give  us  satisfac- 
tory account  of,  or  reason  for  them.  Content  with  stating 
the  fact  of  these  pleasures  being  held  the  lowest,  he  shows 
not  why  this  estimation  of  them  is  just,  and  confuses  the 
reader  by  observing  casually  respecting  the  higher  pleasures, 
what  is  indeed  true,  but  appears  at  first  opposed  to  his  own 
position,  namely,  that  *^  men  may  be  conceived,  as  also  in 
these  taking  pleasure,  either  rightly,  or  more  or  less  than  is 
right."  *  Which  being  so,  and  evident  capability  of  excess 
or  defect  existing  in  pleasures  of  this  higher  order,  we  ought 
to  have  been  told  how  it  happens  that  men  are  not  called  in- 
temperate when  they  indulge  in  excess  of  this  kind,  and 
what  is  that  difference  in  tlie  nature  of  the  pleasure  which 
diminishes  the  criminality  of  its  excess.  This  let  us  attempt 
to  ascertain. 

Men  are  held  intemparate  (dKoXao-rot)  only  when  their  de- 
sires overcome  or  prevent  the  action  of  their  reason,  and 
they  are  indeed  intemperate  in  the  exact  degree  in  which 
such  prevention  or  interference  takes  place,  and 

§  4.  Right  use  of  n  .X  .  .  -. 

the  term  "intern-  SO  are  actually  aKoAa(rT06,  in  many  mstances,  and 
with  respect  to  many  resolves,  which  lower  not 
the  world's  estimation  of  their  temperance.  For  so  long  as 
it  can  be  supposed  that  the  reason  has  acted  imperfectly  ow- 
ing its  own  imperfection,  or  to  the  imperfection  of  the  prem- 

*  cos  Set,  Ktti  Ka9'  virepfioA^y  Koi  iWeiipiy, 


AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  OF  SENSE,  203 


ises  submitted  to  it,  (as  when  men  give  an  inordinate  pref- 
erence to  their  own  pursuits,  because  they  cannot,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  have  sufficiently  experienced  the  goodness 
and  benefit  of  others,)  and  so  long  as  it  may  be  presumed 
that  men  have  referred  to  reason  in  what  they  do,  and  have 
not  suffered  its  orders  to  be  disobeyed  through  mere  impulse 
and  desire,  (though  those  orders  may  be  full  of  error  owing 
to  the  reason's  own  feebleness,)  so  long  men  are  not  held 
intemperate.  But  when  it  is  palpably  evident  that  the  rea- 
son cannot  have  erred  but  that  its  voice  has  been  deadened 
or  disobeyed,  and  that  the  reasonable  creature  has  been 
dragged  dead  round  the  walls  of  his  own  citadel  by  mere 
passion  and  impulse, — then,  and  then  only,  men  are  of  all 
held  intemperate.  And  this  is  evidently  the  case  with  re- 
spect to  inordinate  indulgence  in  pleasures  of  touch  and 
taste,  for  these,  being  destructive  in  their  continuance  not 
only  of  all  other  pleasures,  but  of  the  very  sensibilities  by 
which  they  themselves  are  received,  and  as  this  penalty  is 
actually  known  and  experienced  by  those  indulging  in  them, 
so  that  the  reason  cannot  but  pronounce  right  respecting 
their  perilousness,  there  is  no  palliation  of  the  wrong  choice  • 
and  the  man,  as  utterly  incapable  of  will,*  is  called  intemper 
ate,  or  d/coAao-ro?. 

It  would  be  well  if  the  reader  would  for  himself  follow  out 
this  subject,  which  it  would  be  irrelevant  here  to  pursue 
farther,  observing  how  a  certain  degree  of  intemperance  is 
suspected  and  attributed  to  men  with  respect  to  higher  im- 
pulses ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the  case  of  anger,  or  any  other 
passion  criminally  indulged,  and  yet  is  not  so  attributed,  as 
in  the  case  of  sensual  pleasures  ;  because  in  anger  the  rea- 
son is  supposed  not  to  have  had  time  to  operate,  and  to  be 
itself  affected  by  the  presence  of  the  passion,  which  seizes 
the  man  involuntarily  and  before  he  is  aware  ;  whereas,  in 
the  case  of  the  sensual  pleasures,  the  act  is  deliberate,  and 
determined  on  beforehand,  in  direct  defiance  of  reason.  Nev- 
ertheless, if  no  precaution  be  taken  against  immoderate  an- 


*  Comp.  Hooker,  Eccl.  Pol.  Book  i.  chap.  8. 


204  OF  THE  THEOBETIG  FACULTY 


ger,  and  the  passions  gain  upon  the  man,  so  as  to  be  evi- 
dently wilful  and  unrestrained,  and  admitted  contrary  to  all 
reason,  we  begin  to  look  upon  him  as,  in  the  real  sense  of 
the  word,  intemperate,  or  aKoXao-ro?,  and  assign  to  him,  in 
consequence,  his  place  among  the  beasts,  as  definitely  as  if  he 
had  yielded  to  the  pleasurable  temptations  of  touch  or  taste. 

We  see,  then,  that  the  primal  ground  of  inferiority  in 
§5  Grounds  of  ^^^^^^  pleasures  is  that  which  proves  their  in- 
inferiority  in  ttie  dul^euce  to  be  coutrarv  to  reason  !  namely, 

X)leasures  which      i-t  .  ,  " 

arc  subjects  of  their  dcstructiveness  upon  prolongation,  and 
intemperance.  incapability  of  co-existing  continually  with 

other  delights  or  perfections  of  the  system. 

And  this  incapability  of  continuance  directs  us  to  the  sec- 
ond cause  of  their  inferiority  ;  namely,  that  they  are  given 
to  us  as  subservient  to  life,  as  instruments  of  our  preservation 
— compelling  us  to  seek  the  things  necessary  to  our  being, 
and  that,  therefore,  when  this  their  function  is  fully  per- 
formed, they  ought  to  have  an  end  ;  and  can  be  only  arti- 
ficially, and  under  high  penalty,  prolonged.  But  the  pleas- 
ures of  sight  and  hearing  are  given  as  gifts.  They  answer 
not  any  purposes  of  mere  existence,  for  the  distinction  of  all 
that  is  useful  or  dangerous  to  us  might  be  made,  and  often 
is  made,  by  the  eye,  without  its  receiving  the  slightest  pleas- 
ure of  sight.  We  might  have  learned  to  distinguish  fruits 
and  grain  from  flowers,  without  having  any  superior  pleasure 
in  the  aspect  of  the  latter.  And  the  ear  might  have  learned 
to  distinguish  the  sounds  that  communicate  ideas,  or  to  recog- 
nize intimations  of  elemental  danger  without  perceiving  either 
music  in  the  voice,  or  majesty  in  the  thunder.  And  as  these 
pleasures  have  no  function  to  perform,  so  there  is  no  limit  to 
their  continuance  in  the  accomplishment  of  their  end,  for 
they  are  an  end  in  themselves,  and  so  may  be  perpetual  with 
all  of  us — being  in  no  way  destructive,  but  rather  increasing 
in  exquisiteness  by  repetition. 

Herein,  then,  we  find  very  sufficient  ground  for  the  higher 
§  6.  Evidence  of  estimation  of  these  delights,  first,  in  their  being 
JlifaKu'res'^o?^^^^^  eternal  and  inexhaustible,  and  secondly,  in  their 
and  hearing.       being  evidently  no  means  or  instrument  of  life. 


AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  OF  SENSE.  205 


but  an  object  of  life.  Now  in  whatever  is  an  object  of  life,  in 
whatever  may  be  infinitely  and  for  itself  desired,  we  may  be 
sure  there  is  something  of  divine,  for  God  will  not  make  any- 
thing an  object  of  life  to  his  creatures  which  does  not  point 
to,  or  partake  of,  Himself.  And  so,  though  we  were  to  re- 
gard the  pleasures  of  sight  merely  as  the  highest  of  sensual 
pleasures,  and  though  they  were  of  rare  occurrence,  and, 
when  occurring,  isolated  and  imperfect,  there  would  still  be  a 
supernatural  character  about  them,  owing  to  their  perma- 
nence and  self-sufficiency,  where  no  other  sensual  pleasures 
are  permanent  or  self-sufficient.  But  when,  instead  of  being 
scattered,  interrupted,  or  chance-distributed,  they  are  gath- 
ered together,  and  so  arranged  to  enhance  each  other  as  by 
chance  they  could  not  be,  there  is  caused  by  them  not  only  a 
feeling  of  strong  affection  towards  the  object  in  which  they 
exist,  but  a  perception  of  purpose  and  adaptation  of  it  to 
our  desires  ;  a  perception,  therefore,  of  the  immediate  opera- 
tion of  the  Intelligence  which  so  formed  us,  and  so  feeds  us. 

Out  of  which  perception  arise  joy,  admiration,  and  grati- 
tude. 

Now  the  mere  animal  consciousness  of  the  pleasantness  I 
call  assthesis  ;  but  the  exulting,  reverent,  and  grateful  per- 
ception of  it  I  call  theoria.  For  this,  and  this  only,  is  the 
full  comprehension  and  contemplation  of  the  beautiful  as  a 
gift  of  God,  a  gift  not  necessary  to  our  being,  but  added  to, 
and  elevating  it,  and  twofold,  first  of  the  desire,  and  secondly 
of  the  thing  desired. 

And  that  this  joyfulness  and  reverence  are  a  necessary  part 
of  theoretic  pleasure  is  very  evident  when  we  consider  that, 
by  the  presence  of  these  feelings,  even  the  lower  and  more 
§7.  How  the  sensual  pleasures  may  be  rendered  theoretic, 
mly  be'^Sted  Thus  Aristotle  has  subtly  noted,  that  "  we  call 
in  rank.  men  intemperate  so  much  with  respect  to  the 

scents  of  roses  or  herb-perfumes  as  of  ointments  and  of  con- 
diments," (though  the  reason  that  he  gives  for  this  be  futile 
enough.)  For  the  fact  is,  that  of  scents  artificially  prepared 
the  extreme  desire  is  intemperance,  but  of  natural  and  God- 
given  scents,  which  take  their  part  in  the  harmony  and  pleas- 


206 


OF'  THE  THEOBETIG  FACULTY 


antness  of  creation,  there  can  hardly  be  intemperance  ;  not 
that  there  is  any  absolute  difference  between  the  two  kinds, 
but  that  these  are  likely  to  be  received  with  gratitude  and 
joyfulness  rather  than  those,  so  that  we  despise  the  seeking 
of  essences  and  unguents,  but  not  the  sowing  of  violets  along 
our  garden  banks.  But  all  things  may  be  elevated  by  affec- 
tion, as  the  spikenard  of  Mary,  and  in  the  Song  of  Solomon, 
the  myrrh  upon  the  handles  of  the  lock,  and  that  of  Isaac 
concerning  his  son.  And  the  general  law  for  all  these  pleas- 
ures is,  that  when  sought  in  the  abstract  and  ardently,  they 
are  foul  things,  but  when  received  with  thankfulness  and  with 
reference  to  God's  glory,  they  become  theoretic ;  and  so  I 
can  find  something  divine  in  the  sweetness  of  wild  fruits,  as 
well  as  in  the  pleasantness  of  the  pure  air,  and  the  tenderness 
of  its  natural  perfumes  that  come  and  go  as  they  list. 

It  will  be  understood  why  I  formerly  said  in  the  chapter 
respecting  ideas  of  beauty,  that  those  ideas  were  the  sub- 
ject of  moral  and  not  of  intellectual,  nor  altogether  of  sen- 
sual perception  ;  and  why  I  spoke  of  the  pleasures  connected 
„  o   T  ^        ,  with  them  as  derived  from      those  material 

§  8.    I  d  e  a  s  of 

beauty  how  es-  sources  which  are  as^reeable  to  our  moral  nature 

sentially  moral.     ,     .  .  /.       •       si     -n  •  • 

in  its  purity  and  perfection."  For,  as  it  is  nec- 
essary to  the  existence  of  an  idea  of  beauty,  that  the  sen- 
sual pleasure  which  may  be  its  basis,  should  be  accompanied 
first  with  joy,  then  with  love  of  the  object,  then  with  the  per- 
ception of  kindness  in  a  superior  Intelligence,  finally  with 
thankfulness  and  veneration  towards  that  Intelligence  itself, 
and  as  no  idea  can  be  at  all  considered  as  in  any  way  an  idea 
of  beauty,  until  it  be  made  up  of  these  emotions,  any  more 
than  we  can  be  said  to  have  an  idea  of  a  letter  of  which  we 
perceive  the  perfume  and  the  fair  writing,  without  under- 
standing the  contents  of  it,  or  intent  of  it ;  and  as  these 
emotions  are  in  no  way  resultant  from,  nor  obtainable  by, 
any  operation  of  the  intellect,  it  is  evident  that  the  sensa- 
tion of  beauty  is  not  sensual  on  the  one  hand,  nor  is  it  in- 
tellectual on  the  other,  but  is  dependent  on  a  pure,  right,  and 
open  state  of  the  heart,  both  for  its  truth  and  for  its  inten- 
sity, insomuch  that  even  the  right  after  action  of  the  intel- 


AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  OF  SENSE.  207 


lect  upon  facts  of  beauty  so  apprehended,  is  dependent  on 
the  acuteness  of  the  heart  feeling  about  them  ;  and  thus  the 
Apostolic  words  come  true,  in  this  minor  respect  as  in  all 
others,  that  men  are  alienated  from  the  life  of  God,  through 
the  ignorance  that  is  in  them,  having  the  understanding  dark- 
ened because  of  the  hardness  of  their  hearts,  and  so  being 
past  feeling,  give  themselves  up  to  lasciviousness  ;  for  we 
do  indeed  see  constantly  that  men  having  naturally  acute 
perceptions  of  the  beautiful,  yet  not  receiving  it  with  a  pure 
heart,  nor  into  their  hearts  at  all,  never  comprehend  it,  nor 
receive  good  from  it,  but  make  it  a  mere  minister  to  their  de- 
sires, and  accompaniment  and  seasoning  of  lower  sensual 
pleasures,  until  all  their  emotions  take  the  same  earthly 
stamp,  and  the  sense  of  beauty  sinks  into  the  servant  of  lust. 

Nor  is  what  the  world  commonly  understands  by  the  culti- 
§9  How  de-  ^^^^^^  taste,  anything  more  or  better  than 
graded  by  heart-  this,  at  Icast  in  timcs  of  corrupt  and  over-pam- 

less  reception 

pered  civilization,  when  men  build  palaces  and 
plant  groves  and  gather  luxuries,  that  they  and  their  devices 
may  hang  in  the  corners  of  the  world  like  fine-spun  cob- 
webs, with  greedy,  puffed-up,  spider-like  lusts  in  the  middle. 
And  this,  which  in  Christian  times  is  the  abuse  and  corrup- 
tion of  the  sense  of  beauty,  was  in  that  Pagan  life  of  which 
St.  Paul  speaks,  little  less  than  the  essence  of  it,  and  the  best 
they  had  ;  for  I  know  not  that  of  the  expressions  of  affec- 
tion towards  external  nature  to  be  found  among  Heathen 
writers,  there  are  any  of  which  the  balance  and  leading 
thought  cleaves  not  towards  the  sensual  parts  of  her.  Her 
beneficence  they  sought,  and  her  power  they  shunned,  her 
teaching  through  both,  they  understood  never.  The  pleas- 
ant influences  of  soft  winds  and  ringing  streamlets,  and 
shady  coverts  ;  of  the  violet  couch,  and  plane-tree  shade,* 
they  received,  perhaps,  in  a  more  noble  way  than  we,  but 
they  found  not  anything  except  fear,  upon  the  bare  moun- 
§  10.  How  exalt-  ghostly  glen.    The  Hybla  heather 

ed  by  affection,   they  loved  more  for  its  sweet  hives  than  its 


*  Plato,  Phsedrus,  §  9. 


208  OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCURACY 


purple  hues.  But  the  Christian  theoria  seeks  not,  though  it 
accepts,  and  touches  with  its  own  purity,  what  the  Epicurean 
sought,  but  finds  its  food  and  the  objects  of  its  love  every- 
where, in  what  is  harsh  and  fearful,  as  well  as  what  is  kind, 
nay,  even  in  all  that  seems  coarse  and  commonplace  ;  seizing 
that  which  is  good,  and  delighting  more  sometimes  at  find- 
ing its  table  spread  in  strange  places,  and  in  the  presence  of 
its  enemies,  and  its  honey  coming  out  of  the  rock,  than  if  all 
were  harmonized  into  a  less  wondrous  pleasure  ;  hating  only 
what  is  self-sighted  and  insolent  of  men's  work,  despising  all 
that  is  not  of  God,  unless  reminding  it  of  God,  yet  able  to 
find  evidence  of  him  still,  where  all  seems  forgetful  of  him, 
and  to  turn  that  into  a  witness  of  his  working  which  was 
meant  to  obscure  it,  and  so  with  clear  and  unoffended  sight 
beholding  him  forever,  according  to  the  written  promise, — 
Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCURACY  IN   IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 

Hitherto  we  have  observed  only  the  distinctions  of 
_    ^  disrnity  amon^  pleasures  of  sense,  considered 

§1.  By  what  test  i  or  ? 

is  the  health  of  merely  as  such,  and  the  way  in  which  any  of 

the     perceptive     .  .      .      ,     .  .  , 

faculty  to  be  de-  them  may  become  theoretic  in  being  received 

termined?  •    i  ,  j?  ^^ 

With  right  leehng. 
But  as  we  go  farther,  and  examine  the  distinctive  nature 
of  ideas  of  beauty,  we  shall,  I  believe,  perceive  something  in 
them  besides  aesthetic  pleasure,  which  attests  a  more  impor- 
tant function  belonging  to  them  than  attaches  to  other  sen- 
sual ideas,  and  exhibits  a  more  exalted  character  in  the  faculty 
by  which  they  are  received.  And  this  was  what  I  alluded  to, 
when  I  said  in  the  chapter  already  referred  to  (§  1),  that  "  we 
may  indeed  perceive,  as  far  as  we  are  acquainted  with  the 
nature  of  God,  that  we  have  been  so  constructed  as  in  a 
healthy  state  of  mind  to  derive  pleasure  from  whatever  things 
are  illustrative  of  that  nature." 


IN  IMPliESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


209 


This  point  it  is  necessary  now  farther  to  develop. 

Our  first  inquiry  must  evidently  be,  how  we  are  authorized 
to  affirm  of  any  man's  mind,  respecting  impressions  of  sight, 
that  it  is  in  a  healthy  state  or  otherwise.  What  canon  or  test 
is  there  by  which  we  may.  determine  of  these  impressions  that 
they  are  or  are  not  rightly  esteemed  beautiful  ?  To  what 
authority,  when  men  are  at  variance  with  each  other  on  this 
subject,  shall  it  be  deputed  to  judge  which  is  right  ?  or  is 
there  any  such  authority  or  canon  at  all  ? 

For  it  does  not  at  first  appear  easy  to  prove  that  men  ought 
to  like  one  thing  rather  than  another,  and  although  this  is 
granted  generally  by  men's  speaking  of  bad  or  good  taste,  it 
is  frequently  denied  when  we  pass  to  particulars,  by  the  as- 
sertion of  each  individual  that  he  has  a  right  to  his  opinion — 
a  right  which  is  sometimes  claimed  even  in  moral  matters, 
though  then  palpably  without  foundation,  but  which  does  not 
appear  altogether  irrational  in  matters  aesthetic,  wherein  little 
operation  of  voluntary  choice  is  supposed  possible.  It  would 
appear  strange,  for  instance,  to  assert,  respecting  a  particular 
person  who  preferred  the  scent  of  violets  to  roses,  that  he  had 
no  right  to  do  so.  And  yet,  while  I  have  said  that  the  sensa- 
tion of  beauty  is  intuitive  and  necessary,  as  men  derive  pleas- 
ure from  the  scent  of  a  rose,  I  have  assumed  that  there  are 
some  sources  from  which  it  is  rightly  derived,  and  others 
from  w^hich  it  is  wrongly  derived,  in  other  words  that  men 
have  no  right  to  think  some  things  beautiful,  and  no  right 
to  remain  apathetic  with  regard  to  others. 

Hence  then  arise  two  questions,  according  to  the  sense  in 
which  the  word  right  is  taken  ;  the  first,  in  what  way  an  im- 
§  2.  And  in  what  pression  of  scnse  may  be  deceptive,  and  there- 
terms  Right  and  ^^^^  ^  conclusion  respecting  it  untrue  ;  and  the 
tLhed^f  it^s^on-  second,  in  what  way  an  impression  of  sense,  or 
elusions?  the  preference  of  one,  may  be  a  subject  of  will, 

and  therefore  of  moral  duty  or  delinquency. 

To  the  first  of  these  questions,  I  answer  that  we  cannot 
speak  of  the  immediate  impression  of  sense  as  false,  nor  of 
its  preference  to  others  as  mistaken,  for  no  one  can  be  de- 
ceived respecting  the  actual  sensation  he  perceives  or  prefers. 
Vol.  II.— 14 


210  OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCUBACY 


But  falsity  may  attach  to  his  assertion  or  supposition,  eithei 
that  what  he  himself  perceives  is  from  the  same  object  per- 
ceived by  others,  or  is  always  to  be  by  himself  perceived,  or 
is  always  to  be  by  himself  preferred  ;  and  when  we  speak  of 
a  man  as  wrong  in  his  impressions  of  sense,  we  either  mean 
that  he  feels  differently  from  all,  or  a  majority,  respecting  a 
certain  object,  or  that  he  prefers  at  present  those  of  his  im- 
pressions, which  ultimately  he  will  not  prefer. 

To  the  second  I  answer,  that  over  immediate  impressions 
and  immediate  preferences  we  have  no  power,  but  over  ulti- 
mate impressions,  and  especially  ultimate  preferences  we 
have  ;  and  that,  though  we  can  neither  at  once  choose  whether 
we  shall  see  an  object,  red,  green,  or  blue,  nor  determine  to 
like  the  red  better  than  the  blue,  or  the  blue  better  than  the 
red,  yet  we  can,  if  we  choose,  make  ourselves  ultimately  sus- 
ceptible of  such  impressions  in  other  degrees,  and  capable  of 
pleasures  in  them  in  different  measure  ;  and  because,  wher- 
ever power  of  any  kind  is  given,  there  is  responsibility  at- 
tached, it  is  the  duty  of  men  to  prefer  certain  impressions  of 
sense  to  others,  because  they  have  the  power  of  doing  so, 
this  being  precisely  analogous  to  the  law  of  the  moral  world, 
whereby  men  are  supposed  not  only  capable  of  governing 
their  likes  and  dislikes,  but  the  whole  culpability  or  propriety 
of  actions  is  dependent  upon  this  capability,  so  that  men  are 
guilty  or  otherwise,  not  for  what  they  do,  but  for  what  they 
desire,  the  command  being  not,  thou  shalt  obey,  but  thou  shalt 
love,  the  Lord  thy  God,  which,  if  men  were  not  capable  of 
governing  and  directing  their  affections,  would  be  the  com- 
mand of  an  impossibility. 

I  assert,  therefore,  that  even  with  respect  to  impressions 
§3  What  power  sensc,  we  havc  a  power  of  preference,  and  a 
we  have  over  im-  correspondin^T  dutv,  and  T  shall  show  first  the 

pressions  of  sense.  ^  o  ./ 

nature  of  the  power,  and  afterwards  the  nature 

of  the  duty. 

Let  us  take  an  instance  from  one  of  the  lowest  of  the 
senses,  and  observe  the  kind  of  power  we  have  over  the  im- 
pressions of  lingual  taste.  On  the  first  offering  of  two  dif- 
ferent things  to  the  palate,  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  prevent 


IN  IMPBES8I0N8  OF  SENSE, 


211 


or  comusittid  the  instinctive  preference.  One  will  be  unavoid- 
ably and  helplessly  preferred  to  the  other.  But  if  the  same 
two  things  be  submitted  to  judgment  frequently  and  atten- 
tively, it  will  be  often  found  that  their  relations  change. 
The  palate,  which  at  first  perceived  only  the  coarse  and 
violent  qualities  of  either,  will^  as  it  becomes  more  experi- 
enced, acquire  greater  subtilty  and  delicacy  of  discrimina- 
tion, perceiving  in  both  agreeable  or  disagreeable  qualities 
at  first  unnoticed,  which  on  conti*iued  experience  will  prob- 
ably became  more  influential  thar*  the  first  impressions  ;  and 
whatever  this  final  verdict  may  h^»,  it  is  felt  by  the  person 
who  gives  it,  and  received  by  o^.k^rs  as  a  more  correct  one 
than  the  first. 

So,  then,  the  power  we  have  ov^r  the  preference  of  im- 
pressions of  taste  is  not  actual  pur  immediate,  but  only  a 
power  of  testing  and  comparing  them  frequently  and  care- 
fully, until  that  which  is  the  more  permanent, 
acuteness^of  a"  the  more  Consistently  agreeable,  be  determined, 
tention.  ^\xt  when  the  instrument  of  taste  is  thus  in 

some  degree  perfected  and  rendered  subtile,  by  its  being 
practised  upon  a  single  object,  its  conclusions  will  be  more 
rapid  with  respect  to  others,  and  it  will  be  able  to  distin- 
guish more  quickly  in  other  things,  and  even  to  prefer  at  once, 
those  qualities  which  are  calculated  finally  to  give  it  most 
pleasure,  though  more  capable  with  respect  to  those  on  which 
it  is  more  frequently  exercised  ;  whence  people  are  called 
judges  with  respect  to  this  or  that  particular  object  of  taste. 

Now  that  verdicts  of  this  kind  are  received  as  authorita- 
tive by  others,  proves  another  and  more  important  fact, 
namely,  that  not  only  changes  of  opinion  take  place  in  con- 
sequence of  experience,  but  that  those  chan2:es 

§  5.     Ultimate        ^  „  .5         ^        .    .  .         «  . 

conclusions  uni-  are  irom  variation  of  opinion  to  unity  ot  opin- 
ion ;  and  that  whatever  may  be  the  differences 
of  estimate  among  unpractised  or  uncultivated  tastes,  there 
will  be  unity  of  taste  among  the  experienced.  And  that 
therefore  the  operation  of  repeated  trial  and  experience  is 
to  arrive  at  principles  of  preference  in  some  sort  common  to 
all,  and  which  are  a  part  of  our  nature. 


212  OF  AC  CUBA  CT  AND  INAOGUEACY 


I  have  selected  the  sense  of  taste  for  an  instance,  because 
it  is  the  least  favorable  to  the  position  T  hold,  since  there  is 
more  latitude  allowed,  and  more  actual  variety  of  verdict  in 
the  case  of  this  sense  than  of  any  other  ;  and  yet,  however 
susceptible  of  variety  even  the  ultimate  approximations  of 
its  preferences  may  be,  the  authority  of  judges  is  distinctly 
allowed,  and  we  hear  every  day  the  admission,  by  those  of 
unpractised  palate,  that  they  are,  or  may  be  wrong  in  their 
opinions  respecting  the  real  pleasurableness  of  things  either 
to  themselves,  or  to  others. 

The  sense,  however,  in  which  they  thus  use  the  word 
"  wrong  "  is  merely  that  of  falseness  or  inaccuracy  in  con- 
§  6  What  duty  ^^^^ion,  not  of  moral  delinquency.  But  there 
is  attached  to  is  as  I  havc  stated,  a  duty,  more  or  less  imper- 

this  power  over        ,  7^7  1 

impressions    of  ativc,  attached  to  every  power  we  possess,  and 
therefore  to  this  powder  over  the  lower  senses  as 
well  as  to  all  others. 

And  this  duty  is  evidently  to  bring  every  sense  into  that 
state  of  cultivation,  in  which  it  shall  both  form  the  truest 
conclusions  respecting  all  that  is  submitted  to  it,  and  pro- 
cure us  the  greatest  amount  of  pleasure  consistent  with  its 
due  relation  to  other  senses  and  functions.  Which  three 
constituents  of  perfection  in  sense,  true  judgment,  maximum 
sensibility,  and  right  relation  to  others,  are  invariably  co- 
existent and  involved  one  by  the  other,  for  the  true  judg- 
ment is  the  result  of  the  high  sensibility,  and  the  high 
sensibility  of  the  right  relation.  Thus,  for  instance,  with 
respect  to  pleasures  of  taste,  it  is  our  duty  not  to  devote 
such  inordinate  attention  to  the  discrimination  of  them  as 
must  be  inconsistent  with  our  pursuit,  and  destructive  of 
our  capacity  of  higher  and  preferable  pleasures,  but  to  culti- 
vate the  sense  of  them  in  that  way  which  is  consistent  with 
all  other  good,  by  temperance,  namely,  and  by  such  atten- 
tion as  the  mind  at  certain  resting  moments  may  fitly  pay 
even  to  so  ignoble  a  source  of  pleasure  as  this,  by  which  dis- 
cipline we  shall  bring  the  faculty  of  taste  itself  to  its  real 
maximum  of  sensibility  ;  for  it  may  not  be  doubted  but  that 
health,  hunger,  and  such  general  refinement  of  bodily  habits 


IN  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


213 


as  shall  make  the  body  a  perfect  and  fine  instrument  in  all 
respects,  are  better  promoters  of  actual  sensual  enjoyment 
of  taste,  than  the  sickened,  sluggish,  hard-stimulated  fas- 
tidiousness of  Epicurism. 

So  also  it  will  certainly  be  found  with  all  the  senses,  that 
they  individually  receive  the  greatest  and  purest  pleasure 
when  they  are  in  right  condition  and  degree  of  subordination 
p  ^  „  .to  all  the  rest  :  and  that  bv  the  over  cultiva- 

§  7.  How  reward-      ^  ^  .  »• 

e(i-  tion  of  any  one,  (for  morbid  sources  of  pleasure 

and  correspondent  temptations  to  irrational  indulgence,  con- 
fessedly are  attached  to  all,)  we  shall  add  more  to  their  power 
as  instruments  of  punishment  than  of  pleasure. 

We  see  then,  in  this  example  of  the  lowest  sense,  that  the 
power  we  have  over  sensations  and  preferences  depends 
mainly  on  the  exercise  of  attention  through  certain  prolonged 
periods,  and  that  by  this  exercise,  we  arrive  at  ultimate,  con- 
stant, and  common  sources  of  agreeableness,  casting  o£E  those 
which  are  external,  accidental,  and  individual. 

That  then  which  is  required  in  order  to  the  attainment  of 
accurate  conclusions  respecting  the  essence  of  the  beautiful, 
is  nothing  more  than  earnest,  loving,  and  unselfish  attention  to 
our  impressions  of  it,  by  which  those  which  are 
with  respect  to  shallow,  false,  or  peculiar  to  times  and  tempera- 
ideas  of  beauty,  ments,  may  be  distinguished  from  those  that 
are  eternal.  And  this  dwelling  upon,  and  fond  contempla- 
tion of  them,  (the  anschauung  of  the  Germans,)  is  perhaps 
as  much  as  was  meant  by  the  Greek  theoria  ;  and  it  is  indeed 
a  very  noble  exercise  of  the  souls  of  men,  and  one  by  which 
they  are  peculiarly  distinguished  from  the  anima  of  lower 
creatures,  which  cannot,  I  think,  be  proved  to  have  any  ca- 
pacity of  contemplation  at  all,  but  only  a  restless  vividness 
of  perception  and  conception,  the  "  fancy  "  of  Hooker  (Eccl. 
Pol.  Book  i.  Chap.  vi.  2).  And  yet  this  dwelling  upon  them 
comes  not  up  to  that  which  I  wish  to  express  by  the  word 
theoria,  unless  it  be  accompanied  by  full  perception  of  their 
being  a  gift  from  and  manifestation  of  God,  and  by  all  those 
other  nobler  emotions  before  described,  since  not  until  so  felt 
is  their  essential  nature  comprehended. 


214  OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCURACY 


But  two  very  important  points  are  to  be  observed  respect- 
ing the  direction  and  discipline  of  the  attention  in  the  early 
stages  of  judgment.    The  first,  that,  for  many  beneficent  pur'- 
poses,  the  nature  of  man  has  been  made  recon* 

§  9.  Errors  indue-      -i   i  i     i  ^        ,  •  n 

ed  by  the  power  cilablc  by  custom  to  many  things  naturally  pain- 
of  habit.  .^^  even  improper  for  it,  and  that 

therefore,  though  by  continued  experience,  united  with 
thought,  we  may  discover  that  which  is  best  of  several,  yet 
if  we  submit  ourselves  to  authority  or  fashion,  and  close  our 
eyes,  we  may  be  by  custom  made  to  tolerate,  and  even  to  love 
and  long  for,  that  which  is  naturally  painful  and  pernicious 
to  us,  whence  arise  incalculable  embarrassments  on  the  sub- 
ject of  art. 

The  second,  that,  in  order  to  the  discovery  of  that  which  is 
best  of  two  things,  it  is  necessary  that  both  should  be  equally 
submitted  to  the  attention  ;  and  therefore  that  we  should 
have  so  much  faith  in  authority  as  shall  make 

§  10.    The  neces-  ,  ,  ,  ,  i  •  i 

sity  of  submis-  US  repeatedly  observe  and  attend  to  that  which 
stages  ^of  ^judg^  is  Said  to  be  right,  even  though  at  present  we 
may  not  feel  it  so.  And  in  the  right  mingling 
of  this  faith  with  the  openness  of  heart,  which  proves  all 
things,  lies  the  great  difficulty  of  the  cultivation  of  the  taste, 
as  far  as  the  spirit  of  the  scholar  is  concerned,  though  even 
when  he  has  this  spirit,  he  may  be  long  retarded  by  having 
evil  examples  submitted  to  him  by  ignorant  masters. 

The  temper,  therefore,  by  which  right  taste  is  formed, 
is,  first,  patient.  It  dwells  upon  what  is  submitted  to  it, 
it  does  not  trample  upon  it  lest  it  should  be  pearls,  even 
though  it  look  like  husks,  it  is  a  good  ground,  soft,  pen- 
etrable, retentive,  it  does  not  send  up  thorns  of  unkind 
thoughts,  to  choke  the  weak  seed,  it  is  hungry  and  thirsty 
too,  and  drinks  all  the  dew  that  falls  on  it,  it  is  an  honest 
and  good  heart,  that  shows  no  too  ready  springing  before  the 
sun  be  up,  but  fails  not  afterwards  ;  it  is  distrustful  of  itself, 
so  as  to  be  ready  to  believe  and  to  try  all  things,  and  yet  so 
trustful  of  itself,  that  it  will  neither  quit  what  it  has  tried,  nor 
take  anything  without  trying.  And  that  pleasure  which  it 
has  in  things  that  it  finds  true  and  good,  is  so  great  that  it 


IN  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE.  215 

cannot  possibly  be  led  aside  by  any  tricks  of  fashion,  nor  dis- 
eases of  vanity,  it  cannot  be  cramped  in  its  conclusions  by 
partialities  and  hypocrisies,  its  visions  and  its  delights  are  too 
penetrating,  too  living,  for  any  whitewashed  object  or  shallow 
fountain  long  to  endure  or  supply.  It  clasps  all  that  it  loves 
so  hard,  that  it  crushes  it  if  it  be  hollow. 

Now,  the  conclusions  of  this  disposition  are  sure  to  be  event- 
ually right,  more  and  more  right  according  to  the  general 
maturity  of  all  the  powers,  but  it  is  sure  to  come  right  at 
last,  because  its  operation  is  in  analogy  to,  and 
scope o?matured  in  harmony  with,  the  whole  spirit  of  the  Chris- 
judgment,  ti^n  moral  system,  and  that  which  it  will  ulti- 
mately love  and  rest  in,  are  great  sources  of  happiness  com- 
mon to  all  the  human  race,  and  based  on  the  relations  they 
hold  to  their  Creator. 

These  common  and  general  sources  of  pleasure  are,  I  be- 
lieve, a  certain  seal,  or  impress  of  divine  work  and  character, 
upon  whatever  God  has  wrought  in  all  the  world  ;  only,  it 
being  necessary  for  the  perception  of  them,  that  their  con- 
traries should  also  be  set  before  us,  these  divine  qualities, 
though  inseparable  from  all  divine  works,  are  yet  suffered  to 
exist  in  such  varieties  of  degree,  that  their  most  limited  mani- 
festation shall,  in  opposition  to  their  most  abundant,  act  as  a 
foil  or  contrary,  just  as  we  conceive  of  cold  as  contrary  to 
heat,  though  the  most  extreme  cold  we  ca»  produce  or  con- 
ceive is  not  inconsistent  with  an  unknown  amount  of  heat  in 
the  body. 

Our  purity  of  taste,  therefore,  is  best  tested  by  its  uni- 
versality, for  if  we  can  only  admire  this  thing  or  that,  we  may 
be  sure  that  our  cause  for  likine:  is  of  a  finite 

§  12.  How  distin-         i  /.  i  -r»       •  /.  •  i 

guishabie  from  and  lalsc  nature.  But  if  we  can  perceive  beauty 
in  everything  of  God's  doing,  we  may  argue  that 
we  have  reached  the  true  perception  of  its  universal  laws. 
Hence,  false  taste  may  be  known  by  its  fastidiousness,  by  its 
demands  of  pomp,  splendor,  and  unusual  combination,  by  its 
enjoyment  only  of  particular  styles  and  modes  of  things,  and 
by  its  pride  also,  for  it  is  forever  meddling,  mending,  accumu- 
lating, and  self-exulting,  its  eye  is  always  upon  itself,  and  it 


216  OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCURACY 


tests  all  things  around  it  by  the  way  they  fit  it.  But  true 
taste  is  forever  growing,  learning,  reading,  worshipping,  lay- 
ing its  hand  upon  its  mouth  because  it  is  astonished,  casting 
its  shoes  from  off  its  feet  because  it  finds  all  ground  holy, 
lamenting  over  itself  and  testing  itself  by  the  way  that  it  fits 
things.  And  it  finds  whereof  to  feed,  and  whereby  to  grow, 
in  all  things,  and  therefore  the  complaint  so  often  made  by 
young  artists  that  they  have  not  within  their  reach  materials, 
or  subjects  enough  for  their  fancy,  is  utterly  groundless,  and 
the  sign  only  of  their  own  blindness  and  inefficiency  ;  for 
there  is  that  to  be  seen  in  every  street  and  lane  of  every  city, 
that  to  be  felt  and  found  in  every  human  heart  and  counte- 
nance, that  to  be  loved  in  every  road-side  weed  and  moss-grown 
wall,  which  in  the  hands  of  faithful  men,  may  convey  emotions 
of  glory  and  sublimity  continual  and  exalted. 

Let  therefore  the  young  artist  beware  of  the  spirit  of 
choice,  *  it  is  an  insolent  spirit  at  the  best  and  commonly  a 
base  and  blind  one  too,  checking  all  progress  and  blasting  all 
power,  encourao^ino:  weaknesses,  pamperins:  par- 

§13.Thedanger    f.  '  A  ^       xJ  ^1      14-  4-  * 

of  a  spirit  of  tialities,  and  teaching  us  to  look  to  accidents  or 
choice.  nature  for  the  help  and  the  joy  which  should 

come  from  our  own  hearts.  He  draws  nothing  well  who  thirsts 
not  to  draw  everythmg  ;  when  a  good  painter  shrinks,  it  is 
because  he  is  humbled,  not  fastidious,  when  he  stops,  it  is  be- 
cause he  is  surf^ted,  and  not  because  he  thinks  nature  has 
given  him 'unkindly  food,  or  that  he  fears  famine,  f  I  have 
seen  a  man  of  true  taste  pause  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
look  at  the  channellings  that  recent  rain  had  traced  in  a  heap 
of  cinders. 

And  here  is  evident  another  reason  of  that  duty  which  we 
owe  respecting  impressions  of  sight,  namely,  to  discipline  our- 
§14.  And  crimi-  selves  to  the  enjoyment  of  those  which  are  eter- 
naiity.  jj^^j       their  nature,  not  only  because  these  are 

the  most  acute,  but  because  they  are  the  most  easily,  con- 

*  ^'Nothing'  comes  amiss, — 
A  good  digestion  turneth  all  to  health." — G.  Herbert. 
\  Yet  note  the  difference  between  the  choice  that  comes  of  pride,  and 
the  choice  that  comes  of  love,  and  compare  Chap.  xv.  §  6. 


IN  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


217 


stantly,  and  unselfishly  attainable.  For  had  it  been  ordained 
by  the  Almighty  that  the  highest  pleasures  of  sight  should 
be  those  of  most  difficult  attainment,  and  that  to  arrive  at 
them  it  should  be  necessary  to  accumulate  gilded  palaces 
tower  over  tower,  and  pile  artificial  mountains  around  insinu- 
ated lakes,  there  would  have  been  a  direct  contradiction  be- 
tween the  unselfish  duties  and  inherent  desires  of  every  in- 
dividual. But  no  such  contradiction  exists  in  the  system  of 
Divine  Providence,  which,  leaving  it  open  to  us,  if  we  will, 
as  creatures  in  probation,  to  abuse  this  sense  like  every  other, 
and  pamper  it  with  selfish  and  thoughtless  vanities  as  we 
pamper  the  palate  with  deadly  meats,  until  the  appetite  of 
tasteful  cruelty  is  lost  in  its  sickened  satiety,  incapable  of 
pleasure  unless,  Caligula  like,  it  concentrate  the  labor  of  a 
million  of  lives  into  the  sensation  of  an  hour,  leaves  it  also 
open  to  us,  by  humble  and  loving  ways,  to  make  ourselves 
susceptible  of  deep  delight  from  the  meanest  objects  of  crea- 
tion, and  of  a  delight  which  shall  not  separate  us  from  our 
fellows,  nor  require  the  sacrifice  of  any  duty  or  occupation, 
but  which  shall  bind  us  closer  to  men  and  to  God,  and  be 
with  us  always,  harmonized  with  every  action,  consistent  with 
every  claim,  unchanging  and  eternal. 

Seeing  then  that  these  qualities  of  material  objects  which 
are  calculated  to  give  us  this  universal  pleasure,  are  demon- 
strably constant  in  their  address  to  human  nature,  they  must 
^  beloner  in  some  measure  to  whatever  has  been 

§  15.     How  cer-  ^  ^ 

tain  conclusions  esteemed  beautiful  throughout  successive  ages 
are  by  reason  de-  of  the  world  (and  they  are  also  by  their  defini- 

monstrable.  ..  ni  i  r»/^i\mi 

tion  common  to  all  the  works  oi  (jrod).  i here- 
fore  it  is  evident  that  it  must  be  possible  to  reason  them  out, 
as  well  as  to  feel  them  out  ;  possible  to  divest  every  object 
of  that  which  makes  it  accidentally  or  temporarily  pleasant, 
and  to  strip  it  bare  of  distinctive  qualities,  until  we  arrive  at 
those  which  it  has  in  common  with  all  other  beautiful  things, 
which  we  may  then  safely  affirm  to  be  the  cause  of  its  ulti- 
mate and  true  delightfulness. 

Now  this  process  of  reasoning  will  be  that  which  I  shall 
endeavor  to  employ  in  the  succeeding  investigations,  a  pro- 


\ 


218  OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCUBACY 


cess  perfectly  safe,  so  long  as  we  are  quite  sure  that  we  are 
reasoning  concerning  objects  which  produce  in  us  one  and 
§  16.  With  what  the  Same  sensation,  but  not  safe  if  the  sensation 
UabUitiestoerror.  produced  be  of  a  different  nature,  though  it 
may  be  equally  agreeable  ;  for  what  produces  a  different 
sensation  must  be  a  different  cause.  And  the  difficulty  of 
reasoning  respecting  beauty  arises  chiefly  from  the  ambiguity 
of  the  word,  which  stands  in  different  people's  minds  for  to- 
tally different  sensations,  for  which  there  can  be  no  common 
cause. 

When,  for  instance,  Mr.  Alison  endeavors  to  support  his 
position  that  "  no  man  is  sensible  to  beauty  in  those  objects 
with  regard  to  which  he  has  not  previous  ideas,"  by  the  re- 
mark that  "  the  beauty  of  a  theory,  or  of  a  relic  of  antiquity, 
is  unintelligible  to  a  peasant,"  we  see  at  once  that  it  is  hope- 
less to  argue  with  a  man  who,  under  his  general  term  beauty, 
may,  for  anything  we  know,  be  sometimes  speaking  of  math- 
ematical demonstrability  and  sometimes  of  historical  inter- 
est ;  while  even  if  we  could  succeed  in  limiting  the  term  to 
the  sense  of  external  attractiveness,  there  would  be  still 
room  for  many  phases  of  error  ;  for  though  the  beauty  of  a 
snowy  mountain  and  of  a  human  cheek  or  forehead,  so  far 
as  both  are  considered  as  mere  matter,  is  the  same,  and  trace- 
able to  certain  qualities  of  color  and  line,  common  to  both, 
and  by  reason  extricable,  yet  the  flush  of  the  cheek  and 
moulding  of  the  brow,  as  they  express  modesty,  affection,  or 
intellect,  possess  sources  of  agreeableness  which  are  not  com- 
mon to  the  snowy  mountain,  and  the  interference  of  whose 
influence  we  must  be  cautious  to  prevent  in  our  examination 
of  those  which  are  material  and  universal.* 

The  first  thing,  then,  that  we  have  to  do,  is  accurately  to 
§  17.  The  term  discriminate  and  define  those  appearances  from 
I'irnirab^^B  'in^he  which  wc  are  about  to  rcason  as  belonging  to 
outset.  Divided  bcautv,  propcrlv  SO  Called,  and  to  clear  the 

into  typical  and  j  ^    r     l       j  ' 

>^itai-  ground  of  all  the  confused  ideas  and  erroneous 

*  Compare  Spenser.    (Hymn  to  Beauty.) 
"  But  ah,  believe  me,  there  is  more  than  so, 
That  works  such  wonders  in  the  minds  of  men." 


IN  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


219 


theories  with  which  the  misapprehension  or  metaphorical  use 
of  the  term  has  encumbered  it. 

By  the  term  beauty,  then,  properly  are  signified  two 
things.  First,  that  external  quality  of  bodies  already  so 
often  spoken  of,  and  which,  whether  it  occur  in  a  stone, 
flower,  beast,  or  in  man,  is  absolutely  identical,  which,  as  I 
have  already  asserted,  may  be  shown  to  be  in  some  sort  typi- 
cal of  the  Divine  attributes,  and  which,  therefore,  I  shall,  for 
distinction's  sake,  call  typical  beauty  ;  and,  secondarily,  the 
appearance  of  felicitous  fulfilment  of  function  in  living  things, 
more  especially  of  the  joyful  and  right  exertion  of  perfect 
life  in  man.  And  this  kind  of  beauty  I  shall  call  vital  beauty. 

Any  application  of  the  word  beautiful  to  other  appear- 
ances or  qualities  than  these,  is  either  false  or  metaphorical, 
as,  for  instance,  to  the  splendor  of  a  discovery,  the  fitness  of 
a  proportion,  the  coherence  of  a  chain  of  reasoning,  or  the 
power  of  bestowing  pleasure  w^hich  objects  receive  from  as- 
sociation, a  power  confessedly  great,  and  interfering,  as  we 
shall  presently  find,  in  a  most  embarrassing  way  with  the  at- 
tractiveness of  inherent  beauty. 

But  in  order  that  the  mind  of  the  reader  may  not  be 
biassed  at  the  outset  by  that  which  he  may  happen  to  have 
received  of  current  theories  respecting  beauty,  founded  on 
the  above  metaphorical  uses  of  the  word,  (theories  which  are 
less  to  be  reprobated  as  accounting  falsely  for  the  sensations 
of  which  they  treat,  than  as  confusing  two  or  more  pleasur- 
able sensations  together,)  I  shall  briefly  glance  at  the  four 
erroneous  positions  most  frequently  held  upon  this  subject, 
before  proceeding  to  examine  those  typical  and  vital  proper- 
ties of  things,  to  which  I  conceive  that  all  our  original  con- 
ceptions of  beauty  may  be  traced. 


220 


OF  FALSE  OPINIONS  HELD 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  FALSE  OPINIONS  HELD  CONCERNING  BEAUTY. 

I  PURPOSE  at  present  to  speak  only  of  four  of  the  more 
§  1.  Of  the  false  Current  opinions  respecting  beauty ,/f  or  of  the 
tr uth^  is  beautyl^  crrors  Connected  with  the  pleasurableness  of  pro- 
and  vice  versa,  portion,  and  of  the  expression  of  right  feelings 
in  the  countenance,  I  shall  have  opportunity  to  treat  in  the 
succeeding  chapters  ;  (compare  Ch.  VI.  Ch.  XVI,)/ 

Those  erring  or  inconsistent  positions  which  I  would  at 
once  dismiss  are,  the  first,  that  the  beautiful  is  the  true,  the 
second,  that  the  beautiful  is  the  useful,  the  third,  that  it  is 
dependent  on  custom,  and  the  fourth,  that  it  is  dependent 
on  the  association  of  ideas. 

To  assert  that  the  beautiful  is  the  true,  appears,  at  first, 
like  asserting  that  propositions  are  matter,  and  matter  prop- 
ositions. But  giving  the  best  and  most  rational  interpretation 
we  can,  and  supposing  the  holders  of  this  strange  position 
to  mean  only  that  things  are  beautiful  which  appear  what 
they  indeed  are,  and  ugly  which  appear  what  they  are  not, 
we  find  them  instantly  contradicted  by  each  and  every  con- 
clusion of  experience.  A  stone  looks  as  truly  a  stone  as  a 
rose  looks  a  rose,  and  yet  is  not  so  beautiful  ;  a  cloud  may 
look  more  like  a  castle  than  a  cloud,  and  be  the  more  beau- 
tiful on  that  account.  The  mirage  of  the  desert  is  fairer  than 
its  sands  ;  the  false  image  of  the  under  heaven  fairer  than 
the  sea.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  any  so  untenable  a  posi- 
tion could  ever  have  been  advanced  ;  but  it  may,  perhaps, 
have  arisen  from  some  confusion  of  the  beauty  of  art  with 
the  beauty  of  nature,  and  from  an  illogical  expansion  of  the 
very  certain  truth,  that  nothing  is  beautiful  in  art,  which, 
professing  to  be  an  imitation,  or  a  statement,  is  not  as  such 
in  some  sort  true. 

That  the  beautiful  is  the  useful,  is  an  assertion  evidently 


CONGERNim  BEAUTY.  221 


based  on  that  limited  and  false  sense  of  the  latter  term  which 
I  have  already  deprecated.    As  it  is  the  most  degrading  and 
^  .  ,     danererous  supposition  which  can  be  advanced 

§2.   Of  the  false  &  rr  ,       .  . 

opinion  that  on  the  subiect,  SO,  fortunately,  it  is  the  most 

beauty  is  useful-        iiii         it'  p  it*- 

ness.  Compare  palpably  absurd.  it  is  to  coniound  admiration 
Chap.  xu.  §  5.  hunger,  love  with  lust,  and  life  with  sensa- 

tion ;  it  is  to  assert  that  the  human  creature  has  no  ideas  and 
no  feelings,  except  those  ultimately  referable  to  its  brutal 
appetites.  It  has  not  a  single  fact  nor  appearance  of  fact  to 
support  it,  and  needs  no  combating,  at  least  until  its  advo- 
cates have  obtained  the  consent  of  the  majority  of  mankind, 
that  the  most  beautiful  productions  of  nature  are  seeds  and 
roots  ;  and  of  arc,  spades  and  millstones. 

Somewhat  more  rational  grounds  appear  for  the  assertion 
that  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  arises  from  familiarity  with 
the  object,  though  even  this  could  not  long  be  maintained 
§3.  ofthefaise  by  a  thinking  person.  For  all  that  can  be  al- 
beautjT  results  legcd  in  defence  of  such  a  supposition  is,  that 
Comp^re^^cS.  familiarity  deprives  some  objects  which  at  first 
^•§1-  appeared  ugly,  of  much  of  their  repulsiveness, 

whence  it  is  as  rational  to  conclude  that  familiarity  is  the 
cause  of  beauty,  as  it  would  be  to  argue  that  because  it  is 
possible  to  acquire  a  taste  for  olives,  therefore  custom  is  the 
cause  of  lusciousness  in  grapes. /  Nevertheless,  there  are 
some  phenomena  resulting  from  the  tendency  of  our  nature 
to  be  influenced  by  habit  of  which  it  may  be  well  to  observe 
the  limits. 

Custom  has  a  twofold  operation  :  the  one  to  deaden  the 
frequency  and  force  of  repeated  impressions,  the  other  to  en- 
dear the  familiar  object  to  the  affections.yC^ommpnly,  where 
§4.  The  twofold  the  mind  is  vigorous,  and  the  power  of  sensa- 
tom.^^it'd?^^^^^^  tion  very  perfect,  it  has  rather  the  last  operation 
sensation,  but  than   the  first  I  with  meaner  minds,  the  first 

confirms     airec-  ^  ' 

takes  place  in  the  higher  degree,  so  that  they 
are  commonly  characterized  by  a  desire  of  excitement,  and 
the  want  of  the  loving,  fixed,  theoretic  power.^^But  both 
take  place  in  some  degree  with  all  men,  so  tha^J^s  life  ad- 
vances, impressions  of  all  kinds  become  less  rapturous  owing 


222 


OF  FALSE  OPINIONS  HELD 


to  their  repetition.  It  is  however  beneficently  ordained  that 
repulsiveness  shall  be  diminished  by  custom  in  a  far  greater 
degree  than  the  sensation  of  beauty,  so  that  the  anatomist 
in  a  little  time  loses  all  sense  of  horror  in  the  torn  flesh,  and 
carous  bone,  while  the  sculptor  ceases  not  to  feel  to  the  close 
of  his  life,  the  deliciousness  of  every  line  of  the  outward 
frame.  So  then  as  in  that  with  which  we  are  made  familiar, 
the  repulsiveness  is  constantly  diminishing,  and  such  claims 
as  it  may  be  able  to  put  forth  on  the  affections  are  daily  be- 
coming stronger,  while  in  what  is  submitted  to  us  of  new  or 
strange,  that  which  may  be  repulsive  is  felt  in  its  full  force, 
while  no  hold  is  as  yet  laid  on  the  affections,  there  is  a  very 
strong  preference  induced  in  most  minds  for  that  to  which 
they  are  not  accustomed  over  that  they  know  not,  and  this 
§  5.  But  never  is  Strongest  in  those  which  are  least  open  to 
dcItroyTth r  es-  sensations  of  positive  beauty.  But  however  far 
sence  of  beauty.  ^]^jg  operation  may  be  carried,  its  utmost  effect 
is  but  the  deadening  and  approximating  the  sensations  of 
beauty  and  ugliness.  It  never  mixes  nor  crosses,  nor  in  any 
way  alters  them  ;  it  has  not  the  slightest  connection  with 
nor  power  over  their  nature.  ^By  tasting  two  wines  alter- 
nately, we  may  deaden  our  perception  of  their  flavor ;  nay, 
we  may  even  do  more  than  can  ever  be  done  in  the  case  of 
sight,  we  may  confound  the  two  flavors  together.  But  it  will 
hardly  be  argued  therefore  that  custom  is  the  cause  of  either 
flavoiy^ Awd'so,  though  by  habit  we  may  deaden  the  effect 
of  ugliness  or  beauty,  it  is  not  for  that  reason  to  be  affirmed 
that  habit  is  the  cause  of  either  sensation.  We  may  keep  a 
skull  beside  us  as  long  as  we  please,  we  may  overcome  its 
repulsiveness,  we  may  render  ourselves  capable  of  perceiving 
many  qualities  of  beauty  about  its  lines,  we  may  contemplate 
it  for  years  together  if  we  will,  it  and  nothing  else,  but  we 
shall  not  get  ourselves  to  think  as  well  of  it  as  of  a  child's 
fair  face. 

It  would  be  easy  to  pursue  the  subject  farther,  but  I  be- 
§  6  Instances     l^^^e  that  every  thoughtful  reader  will  be  perfect- 
ly well  able  to  supply  farther  illustrations,  and 
sweep  away  the  sandy  foundations  of  the  opposite  theory, 


CONGEllJSfING  BEAUTY. 


223 


unassisted.  Let  it,  however,  be  observed,  that  in  spite  of  all 
custom,  an  Englishman  instantly  acknowledges,  and  at  first 
sight,  the  superiority  of  the  turban  to  the  hat,  or  of  the  plaid 
to  the  coat,  that  whatever  the  dictates  of  immediate  fashion 
may  compel,  the  superior  gracefulness  of  the  Greek  or  mid- 
dle age  costumes  is  invariably  felt,  and  that,  respecting  what 
has  been  asserted  of  negro  nations  looking  with  disgust  on 
the  white  face,  no  importance  whatever-is  to  be  attached  to 
the  opinions  of  races  who  have  never  received  any  ideas  of 
beauty  whatsoever,  (these  ideas  being  only  received  by  minds 
under  some  certain  degree  of  cultivation,)  and  whose  dis- 
gust arises  naturally  from  what  they  may  suppose  to  be  a 
sign  of  weakness  or  ill  health.  It  would  be  futile  to  pro- 
ceed into  farther  detail.  I  pass  to  the  last  and  most  weighty 
theory,  that  the  agreeableness  in  objects  which  we  call  beauty 
is  the  result  of  the  association  with  them  of  agreeable  or  in- 
teresting ideas. 

Frequent  has  been  the  support,  and  wide  the  acceptance 
of  this  supposition,  and  yet  I  suppose  that  no  two  consecu- 
tive sentences  were  ever  written  in  defence  of  it,  without 
§7  Of  thefaise  i^^^^lving  either  a  contradiction  or  a  confusion 
opinion   that  of  tcrms--    Thus  Alison,  "There  are  scenes  un- 

beauty    depends  ,  ' 

on  the  associa-  doubtcdlv  more  beautif ul  than  Runnymede,  yet 

tion  of  ideas.  .  .  ,  '  ; 

to  those  who  recollect  the  great  event  that 
passed  there,  there  is  no  scene  perhaps  which  so  strongly 
seizes  on  the  imagination."  Hera  we  are  wonder-struck  at 
the  audacious  obtuseness  which  would  prove  the  power  of 
imagination  by  its  overcoming  that  very  other  power  (of 
inherent  beauty)  whose  existence  the  arguer  denies.  /  For 
the  only  logical  conclusion  which  can  possibly  be  drawn 
from  the  above  sentence  is,  that  imaofination  is  not  the 
source  of  beauty,  for  although  no  scene  seizes  so  strongly 
on  the  imagination,  yet  there  are  scenes  "  more  beautiful 
than  Runnymede."  And  though  instances  of  self-contradic- 
tion as  laconic  and  complete  as  this  are  to  be  found  in  few 
writers  except  Alison,  yej/if  the  arguments  on  the  subject 
be  fairly  sifted  from  the  mass  of  confused  language  with 
which  they  are  always  encumbered  and  placed  in  logical 


224 


OF  FALSE  OPINIONS  HELD 


form,  they  will  be  found  invariably  to  involve  one  of  these 
two  syllogisms,  either,  association  gives  pleasure,  and  beauty 
gives  pleasure,  therefore  association  is  beauty.  Or,  the 
power  of  association  is  stronger  than  the  power  of  beauty, 
therefore  the  power  of  association  is  the  power  of  beauty. 
Nevertheless  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  observe  the  real 
.     .  .      value  and  authority  of  association  in  the  moral 

§  8.  Association.  i   i         •  i  /.  i  ,  ^ 

Is,  1st,  rational,  system,  and  how  ideas  oi  actual  beauty  may  be 
ciency  as  a  cause  affcctcd  by  it.  Otherwise  we  shall  be  liable  to 
of  beauty.  embarrassment  throughout  the  whole  of  the 
succeeding  argument. 

Association  is  of  two  kinds.  Rational  and  accidental.  By 
rational  association  I  understand  the  interest  which  any 
object  may  bear  historically  as  having  been  in  some  way 
connected  with  the  affairs  or  affections  of  men  ;  an  interest 
shared  in  the  minds  of  all  who  are  aware  of  such  connection  : 
which  to  call  beauty  is  mere  and  gross  confusion  of  terms, 
it  is  no  theory  to  be  confuted,  but  a  misuse  of  language  to 
be  set  aside,  a  misuse  involving  the  positions  that  in  unin- 
habited countries  the  vegetation  has  no  grace,  the  rock  no 
dignity,  the  cloud  no  color,  and  that  the  snowy  summits  of 
the  Alps  receive  no  loveliness  from  the  sunset  light,  because 
they  have  not  been  polluted  by  the  wrath,  ravage,  and  mis- 
ery of  men. 

By  accidental  association,  I  understand  the  accidental  con- 
nection of  ideas  and  memories  with  material  things,  owing 
to  which  those  material  things  are  regarded  as  agreeable  or 
§  9.  Association  Otherwise,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  feel- 
extent^of  its^^^  ^^^^  recollcctious  they  summon  ;  the  associa- 
fluence.  tion  being  commonly  involuntary  and  oftentimes 

so  vague  as  that  no  distinct  image  is  suggested  by  the  object, 
but  we  feel  a  painfulness  in  it  or  pleasure  from  it,  without 
knowing  wherefore.  Of  this  operation  of  the  mind  (which  is 
that  of  which  I  spoke  as  causing  inextricable  embarrassments 
on  the  subject  of  beauty)  the  experience  is  constant,  so  that  its 
more  energetic  manifestations  require  no  illustration.  But 
I  do  not  think  that  the  minor  degrees  and  shades  of  this 
great  influence  have  been  sufficiently  appreciated.  Not 


CONCERNma  BEAUTY, 


225 


only  all  vivid  emotions  and  all  circumstances  of  exciting 
interest  leave  their  light  and  shadow  on  the  senseless  things 
and  instruments  among  which  or  through  whose  agency  they 
have  been  felt  or  learned,  but  I  believe  that  the  eye  cannot 
rest  on  a  material  form,  in  a  moment  of  depression  or  exul- 
tation, without  communicating  to  that  form  a  spirit  and  a 
life,  a  life  which  will  make  it  afterwards  in  some  deorree 
loved  or  feared,  a  charm  or  a  painfulness  for  which  we  shall 
be  unable  to  account  even  to  ourselves,  which  will  not  in- 
deed be  perceptible,  except  by  its  delicate  influence  on  our 
judgment  in  cases  of  complicated  beauty.  Let  the  eye  but 
rest  on  a  rough  piece  of  branch  of  curious  form  during  a 
conversation  with  a  friend,  rest,  however,  unconsciously, 
and  though  the  conversation  be  forgotten,  though  every 
circumstance  connected  with  it  be  as  utterly  lost  to  the 
memory  as  though  it  had  not  been,  yet  the  eye  will,  through 
the  whole  life  after,  take  a  certain  pleasure  in  such  boughs 
which  it  had  not  before,  a  pleasure  so  slight,  a  trace  of  feel- 
ing so  delicate  as  to  leave  us  utterly  unconscious  of  its  pecul- 
iar power,  but  undestroyable  by  any  reasoning,  a  part, 
thenceforward,  of  our  constitution,  destroyable  only  by  the 
same  arbitrary  process  of  association  by  which  it  was  cre- 
ated. Reason  has  no  effect  upon  it  whatsoever.  And  there 
is  probably  no  one  opinion  which  is  formed  by  any  of  us,  in 
matters  of  taste,  which  is  not  in  some  degree  influenced  by 
unconscious  association  of  this  kind.  In  many  who  have  no 
definite  rules  of  judgment,  preference  is  decided  by  little 
else,  and  thus,  unfortunately,  its  operations  are  mistaken 
for,  or  rather  substituted  for,  those  of  inherent  beauty,  and 
its  real  position  and  value  in  the  moral  system  is  in  a  great 
measure  overlooked. 

For  I  believe  that  mere  pleasure  and  pain  have  less  asso- 
ciative power  than  duty  performed  or  omitted,  and  that  the 
great  use  of  the  associative  faculty  is  not  to  add  beauty  to 
§  10.  The  dignity  ^Tiaterial  things,  but  to  add  force  to  the  con- 
of  its  function,  gcience.  But  for  this  external  and  all-powerful 
witness,  the  voice  of  the  inward  guide  might  be  lost  in  each 
particular  instance,  almost  as  soon  as  disobeyed  ;  the  echo  of 
Vol.  II.— 15 


226 


OF  FALSE  OPINIONS  HELD 


it  in  after  time,  whereby,  though  perhaps  feeble  as  warning, 
it  becomes  powerful  as  punishment,  might  be  silenced,  and 
the  strength  of  the  protection  pass  away  in  the  lightness  of 
the  lash.  Therefore  it  has  received  the  power  of  enlisting 
external  and  unmeaning  things  in  its  aid,  and  transmitting 
to  all  that  is  indifferent,  its  own  authority  to  reprove  or  re- 
ward, so  that,  as  we  travel  the  way  of  life,  v^e  have  the 
choice,  according  to  our  working,  of  turning  all  the  voices 
of  nature  into  one  song  of  rejoicing,  and  all  her  lifeless  creat- 
ures into  a  glad  company,  whereof  the  meanest  shall  be 
beautiful  in  our  eyes,  by  its  kind  message,  or  of  withering 
and  quenching  her  sympathy  into  a  fearful,  withdrawn,  si- 
lence of  condemnation,  or  into  a  crying  out  of  her  stones,  and 
a  shaking  of  her  dust  against  us.  Nor  is  it  any  marvel  that 
the  theoretic  faculty  should  be  overpowered  by  this  moment- 
ous operation,  and  the  indifferent  appeals  and  inherent  glories 
of  external  things  in  the  end  overlooked,  when  the  perfec- 
tion of  God's  works  is  felt  only  as  the  sweetness  of  his  prom- 
ises, and  their  admirableness  only  as  the  threatenings  of  his 
power. 

y  But  it  is  evident  that  the  full  exercise  of  this  noble  func- 
tion of  the  associative  faculty  is  inconsistent  with  absolute 
and  incontrovertible  conclusions  on  subjects  of  theoretic 
§11.  How  it  is  preference.  For  it  is  quite  impossible  for  any 
iTpressTons  ""'o^^  individual  to  distinguish  in  himself  the  uncon- 
beauty.  scious  Underworking  of  indefinite  association, 

peculiar  to  him  individually,  from  those  great  laws  of 
choice  under  which  he  is  comprehended  with  all  his  race. 
And  it  is  well  for  us  that  it  is  so,  the  harmony  of  God's 
good  work  is  not  in  us  interrupted  by  this  mingling  of  uni- 
versal and  peculiar  principles  ;  for  by  these  such  difference 
is  secured  in  the  feelings  as  shall  make  fellowship  itself  more 
delightful,  by  its  inter-communicate  character,  and  such  va- 
riety of  feeling  also  in  each  of  us  separately  as  shall  make  us 
capable  of  enjoying  scenes  of  different  kinds  and  orders,  in- 
stead of  morbidly  seeking  for  some  perfect  epitome  of  the 
beautiful  in  one  ;  and  also  that  deadening  by  custom  of  the- 
oretic impressions  to  which  I  have  above  alluded,  is  counter- 


CONGERmNG  BEAUTY. 


227 


balanced  by  the  pleasantness  of  acquired  association  ;  and 
the  loss  of  the  intense  feeling  of  the  youth,  which  had  no 
need  of  a  remoter  charm,  by  thought  supplied,  or  any  inter- 
est, unborrowed  from  the  eye,"  is  replaced  by  the  gladness 
of  conscience,  and  the  vigor  of  the  reflecting  and  imagina- 
tive faculties,  as  they  take  their  wide  and  aged  grasp  of  the 
great  relations  between  the  earth  and  its  dead  people. 

In  proportion  therefore  to  the  value,  constancy,  and  effi- 
ciency of  this  influence,  we  must  be  modest  and  cautious  in 
the  pronouncing  of  positive  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
„       .  ,    ^     beauty.  For  every  one  of  us  has  peculiar  sources 

§  12.  And  what  y  ^         .  . 

caution  it  ren-  of  cnioyment  necessarily  opened  to  him  in  cer- 

ders  necessary  in        .  ii-  i-i 

the  examination  tain  sccnes  and  things,  sources  which  are  sealed 
to  others,  and  we  must  be  wary  on  the  one  hand, 
of  confounding  these  in  ourselves  with  ultimate  conclusions 
of  taste,  and  so  forcing  them  upon  all  as  authoritative,  and 
on  the  other  of  supposing  that  the  enjoyments  of  others 
which  we  cannot  share  are  shallow  or  unwarrantable,  because 
incommunicable.  I  fear,  for  instance,  that  in  the  former 
portion  of  this  work  I  may  have  attributed  too  much  com- 
munity and  authority  to  certain  affections  of  my  own  for 
scenery  inducing  emotions  of  wild,  impetuous,  and  enthu- 
siastic characters,  and  too  little  to  those  which  I  perceive  in 
others  for  things  peaceful,  humble,  meditative,  and  solemn. 
So  also  between  youth  and  age  there  will  be  found  differ- 
ences of  seeking,  which  are  not  wrong,  nor  of  false  choice  in 
either,  but  of  different  temperament,  the  youth  sympathiz- 
ing more  with  the  gladness,  fulness,  and  magnificence  of 
things,  and  the  gray  hairs  with  their  completion,  sufficiency 
and  repose.  And  so,  neither  condemning  the  delights  of 
others,  nor  altogether  distrustful  of  our  own,  we  must  ad- 
vance, as  we  live  on,  from  what  is  brilliant  to  what  is  pure, 
and  from  what  is  promised  to  what  is  fulfilled,  and  from  what 
is  our  strength  to  what  is  our  crown,  only  observing  in  all 
things  how  that  which  is  indeed  wrong,  and  to  be  cut  up 
from  the  root,  is  dislike,  and  not  affection.  For  by  the  very 
nature  of  these  beautiful  qualities,  which  T  have  defined  to 
be  the  signature  of  God  upon  his  works,  it  is  evident  that  in 


228 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


whatever  we  altogether  dislike,  we  see  not  all  ;  that  the 
keenness  of  our  vision  is  to  be  tested  by  the  expansiveness  of 
our  love,  and  that  as  far  as  the  influence  of  association  has 
voice  in  the  question,  though  it  is  indeed  possible  that  the 
inevitable  painfulness  of  an  object,  for  which  we  can  render 
no  sufficient  reason,  may  be  owing  to  its  recalling  of  a  sorrow, 
it  is  more  probably  dependent  on  its  accusation  of  a  crime. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF   TYPICAL   BEAUTY  : — FIRST,  OF    INFINITY,  OR   THE  TYPE 
OF  DIYINE  INCOMPREHENSIBILITY. 

The  subject  being  now  in  some  measure  cleared  of  embar- 
rassment, let  us  briefly  distinguish  those  qualities  or  types  on 
whose  combination  is  dependent  the  power  of  mere  material 
§1.  Impossibility  loveliness.  I  pretend  neither  jto  enumerate  uor 
t^ating'^Jhrsub^  perceive  them  all,  for  it  may  be  generally  ob- 
j®^*-  served  that  whatever  good  there  may  be,  desir- 

able by  man,  more  especially  good  belonging  to  his  moral 
nature,  there  will  be  a  corresponding  agreeableness  in  what- 
ever external  object  reminds  him  of  such  good,  whether  it 
remind  him  by  arbitrary  association  or  by  typical  resemblance, 
and  that  the  infinite  ways,  whether  by  reason  or  experience 
discoverable,  by  which  matter  in  some  sort  may  remind  us  of 
moral  perfections,  are  hardly  within  any  reasonable  limits  to 
be  explained,  if  even  by  any  single  mind  they  might  all  be 
traced.  Yet  certain  palpable  and  powerful  modes  there  are, 
by  observing  which,  we  may  come  at  such  general  conclusions 
on  the  subject  as  may  be  practically  useful,  and  more  than 
these  I  shall  not  attempt  to  obtain. 

And  first,  I  would  ask  of  the  reader  to  enter  upon  the  sub- 
§  %  With  what  j^^^  v^\\)ci  me,  as  far  as  may  be,  as  a  little  child, 
simplicity  of  feel-  j^i^dins:  himsclf  of  all  conventional  and  author- 

in{?    to    be    ap-  o 

proached.  itative  thoughts,  and  especially  of  such  associ- 

ations as  arise  from  his  respect  for  Pagan  art,  or  which  are  in 
any  wuy  traceable  to  classical  readings.    I  recollect  that 


OF  INFINITY. 


229 


Mr.  Alison  traces  his  first  perceptions  of  beauty  in  external 
nature  to  this  most  corrupt  source,  thus  betraying  so  total 
and  singular  a  want  of  natural  sensibility  as  may  well  excuse 
the  deficiencies  of  his  following  arguments.  For  there  was 
never  yet  the  child  of  any  promise  (so  far  as  the  theoretic 
faculties  are  concerned)  but  awaked  to  the  sense  of  beauty 
with  the  first  gleam  of  reason  ;  and  I  suppose  there  are  few, 
among  those  who  love  nature  otherwise  than  by  profession 
and  at  second-hand,  who  look  not  back  to  their  youngest  and 
least-learned  days  as  those  of  the  most  intense,  superstitious, 
insatiable,  and  beatific  perception  of  her  splendors.  And  the 
bitter  decline  of  this  glorious  feeling,  though  many  note  it 
not,  partly  owing  to  the  cares  and  weight  of  manhood,  which 
leave  them  not  the  time  nor  the  liberty  to  look  for  their  lost 
treasure,  and  partly  to  the  human  and  divine  affections  which 
are  appointed  to  take  its  place,  yet  has  formed  the  subject 
not  indeed  of  lamentation,  but  of  holy  thankfulness  for  the 
witness  it  bears  to  the  immortal  origin  and  end  of  our  nature, 
to  one  whose  authority  is  almost  without  appeal  in  all  ques- 
tions relating  to  the  influence  of  external  things  upon  the 
pure  human  soul. 

**  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy, — 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growiDg  boy. 

But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 
He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest. 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended. 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 

And  if  it  were  possible  for  us  to  recollect  all  the  unaccount- 
able and  happy  instincts  of  the  careless  time,  and  to  reason 
upon  them  with  the  maturer  judgment,  we  might  arrive  at 
more  rapid  and  right  results  than  either  the  philosophy  or  the 
sophisticated  practice  of  art  have  yet  attained.  But  we  lose 
the  perceptions  before  we  are  capable  of  methodizing  or  com- 
paring them. 


230 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


One,  however,  of  these  child  instincts,  I  believe  that  few 
forget  ;  the  emotion,  namely,  caused  by  all  open  ground,  or 
lines  of  any  spacious  kind  against  the  sky,  behind  which 
p  o   mt,  thercmisht  be  conceived  the  sea.    It  is  an  emo- 

§  3.    The   child     ^  ^ 

instinct  respect-  tion  morc  Dure  than  that  caused  by  the  sea  itself, 

ing  space.  ,     .  .  . 

for  I  recollect  distinctly  running  down  behind 
the  banks  of  a  high  beach  to  get  their  land  line  cutting  against 
the  sky,  and  receiving  a  more  strange  delight  from  this  than 
from  the  sight  of  the  ocean  :  I  am  not  sure  that  this  feeling 
is  common  to  all  children,  (or  would  be  common  if  they  were 
all  in  circumstances  admitting  it),  but  I  have  ascertained  it 
to  be  frequent  among  those  who  possess  the  most  vivid  sen- 
sibilities for  nature  ;  and  I  am  certain  that  the  modification 
of  it,  which  belongs  to  our  after  years,  is  common  to  all,  the 
love,  namely,  of  a  light  distance  appearing  over  a  compara- 
tively dark  horizon.  This  I  have  tested  too  frequently  to  be 
mistaken,  by  offering  to  indifferent  spectators  forms  of  equal 
abstract  beauty  in  half  tint,  relieved,  the  one  against  dark 
sky,  the  other  against  a  bright  distance.  The  preference  is 
invariably  given  to  the  latter,  and  it  is  very  certain  that  this 
preference  arises  not  from  any  supposition  of  there  being 
greater  truth  in  this  than  the  other,  for  the  same  preference 
is  unhesitatingly  accorded  to  the  same  effect  in  nature  her- 
§  4.   Continued  Whatever  beauty  there  may  result  from 

in  after  life.  effccts  of  light  on  foreground  objects,  from  the 
dew  of  the  grass,  the  flash  of  the  cascade,  the  glitter  of  the 
birch  trunk,  or  the  fair  daylight  hues  of  darker  things,  (and 
joyfulness  there  is  in  all  of  them),  there  is  yet  a  light  which 
the  eye  invariably  seeks  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  the  beau- 
tiful, the  light  of  the  declining  or  breaking  day,  and  the 
flakes  of  scarlet  cloud  burning  like  watch-fires  in  the  green 
sky  of  the  horizon  ;  a  deeper  feeling,  I  say,  not  perhaps  more 
acute,  but  having  more  of  spiritual  hope  and  longing,  less  of 
animal  and  present  life,  more  manifest,  invariably,  in  those 
of  more  serious  and  determined  mind,  (I  use  the  word  seri- 
ous, not  as  being  opposed  to  cheerful,  but  to  trivial  and  vol- 
atile ;)  but,  I  think,  marked  and  unfailing  even  in  those  of 
the  least  thoughtful  dispositions.    I  am  willing  to  let  it  rest 


OF  INFINITY. 


231 


on  the  determination  of  every  reader,  whether  the  pleasure 
which  he  has  received  from  these  effects  of  calm  and  lumi- 
nous distance  be  not  the  most  singular  and  memorable  of 
which  he  has  been  conscious,  whether  all  that  is  dazzling  in 
color,  perfect  in  form,  gladdening  in  expression,  be  not  of 
evanescent  and  shallow  appealing,  when  compared  with  the 
still  small  voice  of  the  level  twilight  behind  purple  hills,  or 
the  scarlet  arch  of  dawn  over  the  dark,  troublous-edged  sea. 

Let  us  try  to  discover  that  which  effects  of  this  kind  pos- 
sess or  suggest,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  which  other  ef- 
oi.  .    fects of  li2:ht  and  color  possess  not.    H\\qvq  must 

§5.   Whereto  °.        .  ^  t  i 

this  instinct  is  be  somethiusT  in  them  of  a  peculiar  character, 

traceable.  ox  » 

and  that,  whatever  it  be,  must  be  one  of  the 
primal  and  most  earnest  motives  of  beauty  to  human  sen- 
sation. 

Do  they  show  finer  characters  of  form  than  can  be  devel- 
oped by  the  broader  daylight  ?  Not  so  ;  for  their  power  is 
almost  independent  of  the  forms  they  assume  or  display  ;  it 
matters  little  whether  the  bright  clouds  be  simple  or  mani- 
fold, whether  the  mountain  line  be  subdued  or  majestic,  the 
fairer  forms  of  earthly  things  are  by  them  subdued  and  dis- 
guised, the  round  and  muscular  growth  of  the  forest  trunks 
is  sunk  into  skeleton  lines  of  quiet  shade,  the  purple  clefts 
of  the  hill-side  are  labyrinthed  in  the  darkness,  the  orbed 
spring  and  whirling  wave  of  the  torrent  have  given  place  to 
a  white,  ghastly,  interrupted  gleaming.  Have  they  more  per- 
fection or  fulness  of  color  ?  Not  so  ;  for  their  effect  is  oft- 
entimes deeper  when  their  hues  are  dim,  than  when  they 
are  blazoned  with  crimson  and  pale  gold  ;  and  assuredly,  in 
the  blue  of  the  rainy  sky,  in  the  many  tints  of  morning  flow- 
ers, in  the  sunlight  on  summer  foliage  and  field,  there  are 
more  sources  of  mere  sensual  color-pleasure  than  in  the  single 
streak  of  wan  and  dying  light.  It  is  not  then  by  nobler 
form,  it  is  not  by  positiveness  of  hue,  it  is  not  by  intensity 
of  light,  (for  the  sun  itself  at  noon-day  is  effectless  upon  the 
feelings,)  that  this  strange  distant  space  possesses  its  attract- 
ive power.  But  there  is  one  thing  that  it  has,  or  suggests^ 
which  no  other  object  of  sight  suggests  in  equal  degree,  and 


232 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


that  is, — -Infinity.  It  is  of  all  visible  things  the  least  mate- 
rial, the  least  finite,  the  farthest  withdrawn  from  the  earth 
prison-house,  the  most  typical  of  the  nature  of  God,  the  most 
suggestive  of  the  glory  of  His  dwelling-place.  For  the  sky 
of  night,  though  we  may  know  it  boundless,  is  dark,  it  is  a 
studded  vault,  a  roof  that  seems  to  shut  us  in  and  down,  but 
the  bright  distance  has  no  limit,  we  feel  its  infinity,  as  we  re- 
joice in  its  purity  of  light. 

Now  not  only  is  this  expression  of  infinity  in  distance  most 
precious  wherever  we  find  it,  however  solitary  it  may  be,  and 
however  unassisted  by  other  forms  and  kinds  of  beauty, 
§  6.  Infinity  how  th^X  value  that  no  such  other  forms 

necessary  m  art.  ^jjj  altogether  recompense  us  for  its  loss  ;  and 
much  as  I  dread  the  enunciation  of  anything  that  may  seem 
like  a  conventional  rule,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  asserting,  that 
no  work  of  any  art,  in  which  this  expression  of  infinity  is  pos- 
sible, can  be  perfect,  or  supremely  elevated  without  it,  and 
that,  in  proportion  to  its  presence,  it  will  exalt  and  render 
impressive  even  the  most  tame  and  trivial  themes.  And  I 
think  if  there  be  anyone  grand  division,  by  which  it  is  at  all 
possible  to  set  the  productions  of  painting,  so  far  as  their 
mere  plan  or  system  is  concerned,  on  our  right  and  left  hands, 
it  is  this  of  light  and  dark  background,  of  heaven  light  or  of 
object  light.  For  I  know  not  any  truly  great  painter  of  any 
time,  who  manifests  not  the  most  intense  pleasure  in  the  lu- 
minous space  of  his  backgrounds,  or  who  ever  sacrifices  this 
pleasure  where  the  nature  of  his  subject  admits  of  its  attain- 
ment, as  on  the  other  hand  I  know  not  that  the  habitual  use 
of  dark  backgrounds  can  be  shown  as  having  ever  been  co- 
existent with  pure  or  high  feeling,  and,  except  in  the  case  of 
Rembrandt,  (and  then  under  peculiar  circumstances  only,) 
with  any  high  power  of  intellect.  It  is  however  necessary 
carefully  to  observe  the  following  modifications  of  this  broad 
principle. 

The  absolute  necessity,  for  such  indeed  I  consider  it,  is  of 
§7.  Conditions  no  more  than  such  a  mere  luminous  distant 
of  Its  necessity,  p^^j^^  may  give  to  the  feelings  a  species  of 
escape  from  all  the  finite  objects  about  them.    There  is  a 


OF  INFINITY. 


233 


spectral  etching  of  Rembrandt,  a  presentation  of  Christ  in 
the  temple,  where  the  figure  of  a  robed  priest  stands  glaring 
by  its  gems  out  of  the  gloom,  holding  a  crosier.  Behind  it 
there  is  a  subdued  window  light  seen  in  the  opening  between 
two  columns,  without  which  the  impressiveness  of  the  whole 
subject  would,  I  think,  be  incalculably  brought  down.  I  can- 
not tell  whether  I  am  at  present  allowing  too  much  weight 
to  my  own  fancies  and  predilections,  but  without  so  much 
escape  into  the  outer  air  and  open  heaven  as  this,  I  can  take 
permanent  pleasure  in  no  picture. 

And  I  think  I  am  supported  in  this  feeling  by  the  unani- 
mous practice,  if  not  the  confessed  opinion,  of  all  artists. 
The  painter  of  portrait  is  unhappy  without  his  conventional 
^  ^  ,  ^        ,  white  stroke  under  the  sleeve,  or  beside  the  arm- 

§  8.  And  connect-         ^  ^  ^         ^  ' 

ed  analogies.  chair  ;  the  painter  of  interiors  feels  like  a  caged 
bird,  unless  he  can  throw  a  window  open,  or  set  the  door 
ajar  ;  the  landscapist  dares  not  lose  himself  in  the  forest 
without  a  gleam  of  light  under  its  farthest  branches,  nor 
ventures  out  in  rain,  unless  he  may  somewhere  pierce  to  a 
better  promise  in  the  distance,  or  cling  to  some  closing  gap 
of  variable  blue  above  ; — escape,  hope,  infinity,  by  whatever 
conventionalism  sought,  the  desire  is  the  same  in  all,  the  in- 
stinct constant,  it  is  no  mere  point  of  light  that  is  wanted 
in  the  etching  of  Rembrandt  above  instanced,  a  gleam  of 
armor  or  fold  of  temple  curtain  would  have  been  utterly  val- 
ueless, neither  is  it  liberty,  for  though  we  cut  down  hedges 
and  level  hills,  and  give  what  waste  and  plain  we  choose,  on 
the  right  hand  and  the  left,  it  is  all  comfortless  and  unde- 
sired,  so  long  as  we  cleave  not  a  way  of  escape  forward  ; 
and  however  narrow  and  thorny  and  difficult  the  nearer  path, 
it  matters  not,  so  only  that  the  clouds  open  for  us  at  its  close. 
Neither  will  any  amount  of  beauty  in  nearer  form,  make  us 
content  to  stay  with  it,  so  long  as  we  are  shut  down  to  that 
alone,  nor  is  any  form  so  cold  or  so  hurtful  but  that  we  may 
look  upon  it  with  kindness,  so  only  that  it  rise  against  the 
infinite  hope  of  light  beyond.  The  reader  can  follow  out  the 
analogies  of  this  unassisted. 

But  although  this  narrow  portal  of  escape  be  all  that  is 


234 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


absolutely  necessary,  I  think  that  the  dignity  of  the  painting 
increases  with  the  extent  and  amount  of  the  expression.  With 
the  earlier  and  mis^htier  painters  of  Italy,  the 

§9.Howthedig-  .  f    ^      1  •     ^-  ^  £ 

nity  of  treatment  practice  IS  commonly  to  leave  their  distance  of 
to  the  expression  pure  and  Open  sky,  of  such  simplicity,  that  it  in 
of  infinity.  nowise  shall  interfere  with  or  draw  the  attention 
from  the  interest  of  the  figures,  and  of  such  purity,  that  es- 
pecially towards  the  horizon,  it  shall  be  in  the  highest  degree 
expressive  of  the  infinite  space  of  heaven.  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  they  did  this  with  any  occult  or  metaphysical 
motives.  They  did  it,  I  think,  with  the  child-like,  unpretend- 
ing simplicity  of  all  earnest  men  ;  they  did  what  they  loved 
and  felt  ;  they  sought  what  the  heart  naturally  seeks,  and 
gave  what  it  most  gratefully  receives  ;  and  I  look  to  them  as 
in  all  points  of  principle  (not,  observe,  of  knowledge  or  em- 
pirical attainment)  as  the  most  irrefragable  authorities,  pre- 
cisely on  account  of  the  child-like  innocence,  which  never 
deemed  itself  authoritative,  but  acted  upon  desire,  and  not 
upon  dicta,  and  sought  for  sympathy,  not  for  admiration. 

And  so  we  find  the  same  simple  and  sweet  treatment,  the 
open  sky,  the  tender,  unpretending,  horizontal  white  clouds, 
the  far  winding  and  abundant  landscape,  in  Giotto,  Taddeo, 
Gaddi,  Laurati,  Angelico,  Benozzo,  Ghirlandajo,  Francia, 
Perugino,  and  the  young  Raffaelle,  the  first  symptom  of  con- 
ventionality appearing  in  Peru2rino,  who,  thousrh 

§10.    Examples  .  ^  / 

among  the  South-  With  intense  lecling  ot  light  and  color  he  carried 
ern  schools.  glory  of  his  luminous  distance  far  beyond  all 

his  predecessors,  began  at  the  same  time  to  use  a  somewhat 
morbid  relief  of  his  figures  against  the  upper  sky.  Thus  in 
the  Assumption  of  the  Florentine  Academy,  in  that  of  I'An- 
nunziata  ;  and  of  the  Gallery  of  Bologna,  in  all  which  pict- 
ures the  lower  portions  are  incomparably  the  finest,  owing 
to  the  light  distance  behind  the  heads.  Raffaelle,  in  his  fall, 
betrayed  the  faith  he  had  received  from  his  father  and  his 
master,  and  substituted  for  the  radiant  sky  of  the  Madonna 
del  Cardellino,  the  chamber-wall  of  the  Madonna  della  Sedi- 
ola — and  the  brown  wainscot  of  the  Baldacchino.  Yet  it  is 
curious  to  observe  how  much  of  the  dii^nity  even  of  his  later 


OF  INFINITY, 


235 


pictures,  depends  on  such  portions  as  the  green  light  of  the 
lake,  and  sky  behind  the  rocks,  in  the  St.  John  of  the  tribune, 
and  how  the  repainted  distortion  of  the  Madonna  dell'  Im- 
pannata,  is  redeemed  into  something  like  elevated  character, 
merely  by  the  light  of  the  linen  window  from  which  it  takes 
its  name. 

That  which  by  the  Florentines  was  done  in  pure  simplicity 
of  heart,  was  done  by  the  Venetians  with  intense  love  of  the 
color  and  splendor  of  the  sky  itself,  even  to  the  frequent  sacri- 
§11  Among  the  fi^^i^^g  ^f  their  subject  to  the  passion  of  its  dis- 
venetians.  tancc.  In  Carpaccio,  John  Bellini,  Giorgione, 
Titian,  Veronese,  and  Tintoret,  the  preciousness  of  the  lumi- 
nous sky,  so  far  as  it  might  be  at  all  consistent  with  their  sub- 
ject, is  nearly  constant  ;  abandoned  altogether  in  portraiture 
only,  seldom  even  there,  and  never  with  advantage.  Titian 
and  Veronese,  who  had  less  exalted  feeling  than  the  others, 
affording  a  few  instances  of  exception,  the  latter  overpower- 
ing his  silvery  distances  with  foreground  splendor,  the  other 
sometimes  sacrificing  them  to  a  luscious  fulness  of  color,  as 
in  the  Flagellation  in  the  Louvre,  by  a  comparison  of  which 
with  the  unequalled  majesty  of  the  Entombment  opposite, 
the  whole  power  and  applicability  of  the  general  principle 
may  at  once  be  tested. 

But  of  the  value  of  this  mode  of  treatment  there  is  a  far- 
ther and  more  convincing  proof  than  its  adoption  either  by 
the  innocence  of  the  Florentine  or  the  ardor  of  the  Venetian, 
12  A  th  ^^^^^y?  ^^^^  when  retained  or  imitated  from  them 
painters  of  land-  by  the  landscape  painters  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury,  when  appearing  in  isolation  from  all  other 
good,  among  the  weaknesses  and  paltrinesses  of  Claude,  the 
mannerisms  of  Gaspar,  and  the  caricatures  and  brutalities  of 
Salvator,  it  yet  redeems  and  upholds  all  three,  conquers  all 
foulness  by  its  purity,  vindicates  all  folly  by  its  dignity,  and 
puts  an  uncomprehended  power  of  permanent  address  to  the 
human  hearty  upon  the  lips  of  the  senseless  and  the  profane.* 

*  In  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  of  the  Pitti  palace,  over  the  door,  is  a 
temptation  of  St.  Anthony,  by  Salvator,  wherein  such  power  as  the 
artist  possessed  is  fully  manifested,  with  little,  comparatively,  that  is 


236 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


Now,  although  I  doubt  not  that  the  general  value  of  this 
treatment  will  be  acknowledged  by  all  lovers  of  art,  it  is  not 
certain  that  the  point  to  prove  which  I  have  brought  it  for- 
§13.  other  modes  ^ard,  wiU  be  as  readily  conceded,  namely,  the 
ir 'of^^iLfinity^'is  i^i^erent  power  of  all  representations  of  infinity 
over  the  human  heart  ;  for  there  are,  indeed, 
countless  associations  of  pure  and  religious  kind,  which  com- 
bine with  each  other  to  enhance  the  impression,  when  pre- 
sented in  this  particular  form,  whose  power  I  neither  deny 
nor  am  careful  to  distinguish,  seeing  that  they  all  tend  to 
the  same  Divine  point,  and  have  reference  to  heavenly  hopes  ; 
delights  they  are  in  seeing  the  narrow,  black,  miserable 
earth  fairly  compared  with  the  bright  firmament,  reachings 
forward  unto  the  things  that  are  before,  and  joyfulness  in 
the  apparent  though  unreachable  nearness  and  promise  of 
them.  But  there  are  other  modes  in  which  infinity  may  be 
represented,  which  are  confused  by  no  associations  of  the 
kind,  and  which  would,  as  being  in  mere  matter,  appear  triv- 
ial and  mean,  but  for  their  incalculable  influence  on  the  forms 
of  all  that  we  feel  to  be  beautiful.  The  first  of  these  is  the 
curvature  of  lines  and  surfaces,  wherein  it  at  first  appears 
§14.  The  beauty  f  Utile  to  iusist  upou  any  resemblance  orsugges- 
of  curvature.  q£  infinity,  siuce  there  is  certainly  in  our 

ordinary  contemplation  of  it,  no  sensation  of  the  kind.  But 

offensive.  It  is  a  vigorous  and  ghastly  thought,  in  that  kind  of  horror 
which  is  dependent  on  scenic  effect,  perhaps  unrivalled,  and  I  shall  have 
ocxjasion  to  refer  to  it  again  in  speaking  of  the  powers  of  imagination. 
I  allude  to  it  here,  because  the  sky  of  the  distance  affords  a  remarkable 
instance  of  the  power  of  light  at  present  under  discussion.  It  is  formed 
of  flakes  of  black  cloud,  with  rents  and  openings  of  intense  and  lurid 
green,  and  at  least  half  of  the  impressiveness  of  the  picture  depends  on 
these  openings.  Close  them,  make  the  sky  one  mass  of  gloom,  and  the 
spectre  will  be  awful  no  longer.  It  owes  to  the  light  of  the  distance 
both  its  size  and  its  spirituality.  The  time  would  fail  me  if  I  were  to 
name  the  tenth  part  of  the  pictures  which  occur  to  me,  whose  vulgarity 
is  redeemed  by  this  circumstance  alone,  and  yet  let  not  the  artist  trust 
to  such  morbid  and  conventional  use  of  it  as  may  be  seen  in  the  com- 
mon blue  and  yellow  effectism  of  the  present  day.  Of  the  value  of 
moderation  and  simplicity  in  the  use  of  this,  as  of  all  other  sources  of 
pleasurable  emotion,  I  shall  presently  have  occasion  to  speak  farther. 


OF  INFINITY. 


237 


I  have  repeated  again  and  again  that  the  ideas  of  beauty 
are  instinctive,  and  that  it  is  only  upon  consideration,  and 
even  then  in  doubtful  and  disputable  way,  that  they  appear 
in  their  typical  character  ;  neither  do  I  intend  at  all  to  in- 
sist upon  the  particular  meaning  which  they  appear  to  my- 
self to  bear,  but  merely  on  their  actual  and  demonstrable 
agreeableness,  so  that,  in  the  present  case,  while  I  assert  pos- 
itively, and  have  no  fear  of  being  able  to  prove,  that  a  curve 
of  any  kind  is  more  beautiful  than  a  right  line,  I  leave  it  to 
the  reader  to  accept  or  not,  as  he  pleases,  that  reason  of  its 
agreeableness,  which  is  the  only  one  that  I  can  at  all  trace, 
namely,  that  every  curve  divides  itself  infinitely  by  its  changes 
of  direction. 

That  all  forms  of  acknowledged  beauty  are  composed  ex- 
clusively of  curves  will,  I  believe,  be  at  once  allowed  ;  but 
that  which  there  will  be  need  more  especially  to  prove,  is  the 

subtility  and  constancy  of  curvature  in  all  nat- 
stant  in^exteraai  ural  forms  whatsoever.    I  believe  that,  except 

in  crystals,  in  certain  mountain  forms  admitted 
for  the  sake  of  sublimity  or  contrast,  (as  in  the  slope  of  de- 
bris,) in  rays  of  light,  in  the  levels  of  calm  water  and  alluvial 
land,  and  in  some  few  organic  developments,  there  are  no 
lines  nor  surfaces  of  nature  without  curvature,  though  as  we 
before  saw  in  clouds,  more  especially  in  their  under  lines 
towards  the  horizon,  and  in  vast  and  extended  plains,  right 
lines  are  often  suggested  which  are  not  actual.  Without 
these  we  could  not  be  sensible  of  the  value  of  the  contrasting 
curves,  and  while,  therefore,  for  the  most  part,  the  eye  is  fed 
in  natural  forms  with  a  grace  of  curvature  which  no  hand 
nor  instrument  can  follow,  other  means  are  provided  to  give 
beauty  to  those  surfaces  which  are  admitted  for  contrast,  as 
in  water  by  its  reflection  of  the  gradations  which  it  possesses 
not  itself.  In  freshly-broken  ground,  which  nature  has  not 
yet  had  time  to  model,  in  quarries  and  pits  which  are  none 
of  her  cutting,  in  those  convulsions  and  evidences  of  convul- 
sion, of  whose  influence  on  ideal  landscape  I  shall  presently 
have  occasion  to  speak,  and  generally  in  all  ruin  and  disease, 
and  interference  of  one  order  of  being  with  another,  (as  in 


238 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


the  cattle  line  of  park  trees,)  the  curves  vanish,  and  violently 
opposed  or  broken  and  unmeaning  lines  take  their  place. 

What  curvature  is  to  lines,  gradation  is  to  shades  and 
colors.  It  is  there  infinity,  and  divides  them  into  an  infinite 
number  of  degrees.  Absolutely,  without  gradation  no  natural 
§16.  The  beauty  surfacc  cau  possibly  be,  except  under  circum- 
of  gradation.  stauccs  of  SO  rare  conjunction  as  to  amount  to 
a  lusus  naturae  ;  for  we  have  seen  that  few  surfaces  are 
without  curvature,  and  every  curved  surface  must  be  gra- 
dated by  the  nature  of  light,  which  is  most  intense  when 
it  impinges  at  the  highest  angle,  and  for  the  gradation 
of  the  few  plane  surfaces  that  exist,  means  are  provided  in 
local  color,  aerial  perspective,  reflected  lights,  etc.,  from 
which  it  is  but  barely  conceivable  that  they  should  ever 
escape.  Hence  for  instances  of  the  complete  absence  of 
gradation  we  must  look  to  man's  work,  or  to  his  disease 
and  decrepitude.  Compare  the  gradated  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow with  the  stripes  of  a  target,  and  the  gradual  concen- 
tration of  the  youthful  blood  in  the  cheek  with  an  abrupt 
patch  of  rouge,  or  with  the  sharply  drawn  veining  of  old 
age. 

Gradation  is  so  inseparable  a  quality  of  all  natural  shade 
and  color  that  the  eye  refuses  in  art  to  understand  anything 
as  either,  which  appears  without  it,  while  on  the  other  hand 
§17.  How  found  "©arly  all  the  gradations  of  nature  are  so  sub- 
in  Nature.  ^'1^  between  degrees  of  tint  so  slightly 
separated,  that  no  human  hand  can  in  any  wise  equal,  or  do 
anything  more  than  suggest  the  idea  of  them.  In  propor- 
tion to  the  space  over  which  gradation  extends,  and  to  its 
invisible  subtility,  is  its  grandeur,  and  in  proportion  to  its 
narrow  limits  and  violent  degrees,  its  vulgarity.  In  Cor- 
reggio,  it  is  morbid  and  vulgar  in  spite  of  its  refinement  of 
execution,  because  the  eye  is  drawn  to  it,  and  it  is  made  the 
most  observable  and  characteristic  part  of  the  picture  ; 
whereas  natural  gradation  is  forever  escaping  observation  to 
that  degree  that  the  greater  part  of  artists  in  working  from 
nature  see  it  not,  (except  in  certain  of  its  marked  develop- 
ments,) but  either  lay  down  such  continuous  lines  and  colors, 


OF  INFINITY. 


239 


as  are  both  disagreeable  and  impossible,  or,  receiving  the 
necessity  of  gradation  as  a  principle  instead  of  a  fact,  use 
it  in  violently  exaggerated  measure,  and  so  lose  both  the 
dignity  of  their  own  work,  and  by  the  constant  dwelling  of 
their  eyes  upon  exaggerations,  their  sensibility  to  that  of 
the  natural  forms.  So  that  we  find  the  majority  of  painters 
divided  between  the  two  evil  extremes  of  insufficiency  and 
affectation,  and  only  a  few  of  the  greatest  men  capable  of 
making  gradation  constant  and  yet  extended  over  enormous 
spaces  and  within  degrees  of  narrow  difference,  as  in  the 
body  of  a  high  light. 

From  the  necessity  of  gradation  results  what  is  commonly 
given  as  a  rule  of  art,  though  its  authority  as  a  rule  obtains 
only  from  its  being  a  fact  of  nature,  that  the  extremes  of 
§18.  Howneces-  ^igh  light  and  pure  color,  can  exist  only  in 
saryinArt.  points.  The  commou  rules  respecting  sixths 
and  eighths,  held  concerning  light  and  shade,  are  entirely 
absurd  and  conventional  ;  according  to  the  subject  and  the 
effect  of  light,  the  greater  part  of  the  picture  will  be  or 
ought  to  be  light  or  dark  ;  but  that  principle  which  is  not 
conventional,  is  that  of  all  light,  however  high,  there  is  some 
part  that  is  higher  than  the  rest,  and  that  of  all  color,  how- 
ever pure,  there  is  some  part  that  is  purer  than  the  rest,  and 
that  generally  of  all  shade,  however  deep,  there  is  some  part 
deeper  than  the  rest,  though  this  last  fact  is  frequently 
sacrificed  in  art,  owing  to  the  narrowness  of  its  means.  But 
on  the  right  gradation  or  focussing  of  light  and  color 
depends  in  great  measure,  the  value  of  both.  Of  this,  I 
have  spoken  sufficiently  in  pointing  out  the  singular  con- 
stancy of  it  in  the  works  of  Turner.  Part  II.  Sect.  11.  Chap. 
11.  §  17.  And  it  is  generally  to  be  observed  that  even  raw 
and  valueless  color,  if  rightly  and  subtilely  gradated  will  in 
some  measure  stand  for  light,  and  that  the  most  transparent 
and  perfect  hue  will  be  in  some  measure  unsatisfactory,  if 
entirely  unvaried.  I  believe  the  early  skies  of  Raffaelle  owe 
their  luminousness  more  to  their  untraceable  and  subtile 
gradation  than  to  inherent  quality  of  hue. 

Such  are  the  expressions  of  infinity  which  we  find  in 


240 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


creation,  of  which  the  importance  is  to  be  estimated,  rather 
by  their  frequency  than  their  distinctness.  Let,  however,  the 
o  in  T  «  v.        reader  bear  constantly  in  mind  that  I  insist  not 

§  19.  Infinity  not  ^  ^  ^ 

rightly  implied  on  his  acceptinoT  any  interpretation  of  mine,  but 

byvastness.  i-     i       n-  ^  i 

only  on  his  dwelling  so  long  on  those  objects, 
which  he  perceives  to  be  beautiful,  as  to  determine  whether 
the  qualities  to  which  I  trace  their  beauty,  be  necessarily 
there  or  no.  Farther  expressions  of  infinity  there  are  in  the 
mystery  of  nature,  and  in  some  measure  in  her  vastness,  but 
these  are  dependent  on  our  own  imperfections,  and  there- 
fore, though  they  produce  sublimity,  they  are  unconnected 
with  beauty.  For  that  which  we  foolishly  call  vastness  is, 
rightly  considered,  not  more  wonderful,  not  more  impressive, 
than  that  which  we  insolently  call  littleness,  and  the  infinity 
of  God  is  not  mysterious,  it  is  only  unfathomable,  not  con- 
cealed, but  incomprehensible  :  it  is  a  clear  infinity,  the  dark- 
ness of  the  pure  unsearchable  sea. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OF  UNITY,  OR  THE  TYPE  OF  THE  DIVINE  COMPREHENSIVENESS. 

All  things,"  says  Hooker,    (God  only  excepted,)  be- 
sides the  nature  which  they  have  in  themselves,  receive  ex- 
ternally some  perfection  from  other  things."    Hence  the  ap- 
,  pearance  of  separation  or  isolation  in  anythino:, 

§1.  The  general   ^    .....     ^    .  .  ^  . 

conception  of  di-  and  OI  seli-depeudence,  is  an  appearance  oi  im- 
perfection :  and  all  appearances  of  connection 
and  brotherhood  are  pleasant  and  right,  both  as  significative 
of  perfection  in  the  things  united,  and  as  typical  of  that 
Unity  which  we  attribute  to  God,  and  of  which  our  true  con- 
ception is  rightly  explained  and  limited  by  Dr.  Brown  in  his 
XCII.  lecture  ;  that  Unity  which  consists  not  in  his  own 
singleness  or  separation,  but  in  the  necessity  of  his  inherence 
in  all  things  that  be,  without  which  no  creature  of  any  kind 
could  hold  existence  for  a  moment.  Which  necessity  of  Di- 
vine essence  I  think  it  better  to  speak  of  as  comprehensive- 


OF  UNITY, 


241 


ness,  than  as  unity,  because  unity  is  often  understood  in  the 
sense  of  oneness  or  singleness,  instead  of  universality,  whereas 
the  only  Unity  which  by  any  means  can  become  grateful  or 
an  object  of  hope  to  men,  and  whose  types  therefore  in  ma- 
terial things  can  be  beautiful,  is  that  on  which  turned  the 
last  words  and  prayer  of  Christ  before  his  crossing  of  the 
Kidron  brook.  "  Neither  pray  I  for  these  alone,  but  for 
them  also  which  shall  believe  on  me  through  their  word.  That 
they  all  may  be  one,  as  thou,  Father,  art  in  me,  and  I  in  thee." 

And  so  there  is  not  any  matter,  nor  any  spirit,  nor  any 
creature,  but  it  is  capable  of  an  unity  of  some  kind  with 
other  creatures,  and  in  that  unity  is  its  perfection  and  theirs, 
and  a  pleasure  also  for  the  beholdins:  of  all  other 

§  2.  The  glory  of  ^  i    i     i  i       o        i  -  p 

all  things  is  their  creatures  that  can  behold,  oo  the  unity  oi 
spirits  is  partly  in  their  sympathy,  and  partly 
in  their  giving  and  taking,  and  always  in  their  love  ;  and 
these  are  their  delight  and  their  strength,  for  their  strength 
is  in  their  co-working  and  army  fellowship,  and  their  delight 
is  in  the  giving  and  receiving  of  alternate  and  perpetual  cur- 
rents of  good,  their  inseparable  dependency  on  each  other's 
being,  and  their  essential  and  perfect  depending  on  their 
Creator's  :  and  so  the  unity  of  earthly  creatures  is  their 
power  and  their  peace,  not  like  the  dead  and  cold  peace  of 
undisturbed  stones  and  solitary  mountains,  but  the  living 
peace  of  trust,  and  the  living  power  of  support,  of  hands  that 
hold  each  other  and  are  still  :  and  so  the  unity  of  -matter  is, 
in  its  noblest  form,  the  organization  of  it  which  builds  it  up 
into  temples  for  the  spirit,  and  in  its  lower  form,  the  sweet 
and  strange  affinity,  which  gives  to  it  the  glory  of  its  orderly 
elements,  and  the  fair  variety  of  change  and  assimilation  that 
turns  the  dust  into  the  crystal,  and  separates  the  waters  that 
be  above  the  firmament  from  the  waters  that  be  beneath,  and 
in  its  lowest  form  ;  it  is  the  working  and  walking  and  cling- 
ing together  that  gives  their  power  to  the  winds,  and  its 
syllables  and  soundings  to  the  air,  and  their  weight  to  the 
waves,  and  their  burning  to  the  sunbeams,  and  their  stability 
to  the  mountains,  and  to  every  creature  whatsoever  opera- 
tion is  for  its  glory  and  for  others'  good. 
Vol.  II.— 16 


242 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY, 


Now  of  that  which  is  thus  necessary  to  the  perfection  of 
all  things,  all  appearance,  sign,  type,  or  suggestion  must  be 
beautiful,  in  whatever  matter  it  may  appear.  And  so  to  the 
perfection  of  beauty  in  lines,  or  colors,  or  forms,  or  masses, 
or  multitudes,  the  appearance  of  some  species  of  unity  is  in 
the  most  determined  sense  of  the  word  essential. 

But  of  the  appearances  of  unity,  as  of  unity  itself,  there 
are  several  kinds  which  it  will  be  found  hereafter  convenient 
to  consider  separately.  Thus  there  is  the  unity  of  different 
§3.  The  sever-  and  Separate  things,  subjected  to  one  and  the 
ty.^subjectionai'  Same  influence,  which  may  be  called  subjectional 
quence^^'and^^of  ^^^^J?        ^^^^  Unity  of  the  clouds,  as  they 

membership.  2iVe  driven  by  the  parallel  winds,  or  as  they  are 
ordered  by  the  electric  currents,  and  this  the  unity  of  the 
sea  waves,  and  this  of  the  bending  and  undulation  of  the 
forest  masses,  and  in  creatures  capable  of  will  it  is  the  unity 
of  will  or  of  inspiration.  And  there  is  unity  of  origin,  which 
we  may  call  original  unity,  which  is  of  things  arising  from 
one  spring  and  source,  and  speaking  always  of  this  their 
brotherhood,  and  this  in  matter  is  the  unity  of  the  branches 
of  the  trees,  and  of  the  petals  and  starry  rays  of  flowers,  and 
of  the  beams  of  light,  and  in  spiritual  creatures  it  is  their 
filial  relation  to  Him  from  whom  they  have  their  being.  And 
there  is  unity  of  sequence,  which  is  that  of  things  chat  form 
links  in  chains,  and  steps  in  ascent,  and  stages  \x%  journeys, 
and  this,  in  matter,  is  the  unity  of  communicable  forces  in 
their  continuance  from  one  thing  to  another,  and  it  is  the 
passing  upwards  and  downwards  of  beneficent  effects  among 
all  things,  and  it  is  the  melody  of  sounds,  and  the  beauty  of 
continuous  lines,  and  the  orderly  succession  of  motions  and 
times.  And  in  spiritual  creatures  it  is  their  own  constant 
building  up  by  true  knowledge  and  continuous  reasoning  to 
higher  perfection,  and  the  singleness  and  straightforwardness 
of  their  tendencies  to  more  complete  communion  with  God. 
And  there  is  the  unity  of  membership,  which  we  may  call 
essential  unity,  which  is  the  unity  of  things  separately  im- 
perfect into  a  perfect  whole,  and  this  is  the  great  unity  of 
which  other  unities  are  but  parts  and  means,  it  is  in  matter 


OF  UNITY. 


243 


the  harmony  of  sounds  and  consistency  of  bodies,  and  among 
spiritual  creatures,  their  love  and  happiness  and  very  life  in 
God. 

Now*  of  the  nature  of  this  last  kind  of  unity,  the  most  im- 
portant whether  in  moral  or  in  those  material  things  with 
which  we  are  at  present  concerned,  there  is  this  necessary  to 

4  TJn't  of  observed,  that  it  cannot  exist  between  things 
membership,  similar  to  cach  other.    Two  or  more  equal  and 

ow  secured.  like  things  Cannot  be  members  one  of  another, 
nor  can  they  form  one,  or  a  whole  thing.  Two  they  must 
remain,  both  in  nature  and  in  our  conception,  so  long  as  they 
remain  alike,  unless  they  are  united  by  a  third  different  from 
both.  Thus  the  arms,  which  are  like  each  other,  remain  two 
arms  in  our  conception.  They  could  not  be  united  by  a  third 
arm,  they  must  be  united  by  something  which  is  not  an  arm, 
and  which,  imperfect  without  them  as  they  without  it,  shall 
form  one  perfect  body  ;  nor  is  unity  even  thus  accomplished, 
without  a  difference  and  opposition  of  direction  in  the  set- 
ting on  of  the  like  members.  Therefore  among  all  things 
which  are  to  have  unity  of  membership  one  with  another, 
there  must  be  difference  or  variety  ;  and  though  it  is  possi- 
ble that  many  like  things  may  be  made  members  of  one  body, 
yet  it  is  remarkable  that  this  structure  appears  characteristic 
of  the  lower  creatures,  rather  than  the  higher,  as  the  many 
legs  of  the  caterpillar,  and  the  many  arms  and  suckers  of  the 
radiata,  and  that,  as  we  rise  in  order  of  being,  the  number 
of  similar  members  becomes  less,  and  their  structure  com- 
monly seems  based  on  the  principle  of  the  unity  of  two 
things  by  a  third,  as  Plato  has  it  in  the  Timseus,  §  II. 

Hence,  out  of  the  necessity  of  unity,  arises  that  of  variety, 
a  necessity  often  more  vividly,  though  never  so  deeply  felt, 
because  lying  at  the  surfaces  of  things,  and  assisted  by  an 
§  5  Variety  Why  ^^A^^i^tial  principle  of  our  nature,  the  love  of 
required.  change,  and  the  power  of  contrast.    But  it  is 

a  mistake  which  has  led  to  many  unfortunate  results,  in 
matters  respecting  art,  to  insist  on  any  inherent  agreeable- 
ness  of  variety,  without  reference  to  a  farther  end.  For  it 
is  not  even  true  that  variety  as  such,  and  in  its  highest  de- 


244 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


gree,  is  beautiful.  A  patched  garment  of  many  colors  is  by 
no  means  so  ageeeable  as  one  of  a  single  and  continuous 
hue  ;  the  splendid  colors  of  many  birds  are  eminently  pain- 
ful from  their  violent  separation  and  inordinate  variety, 
w^hile  the  pure  and  colorless  swan  is,  under  certain  circum- 
stances, the  most  beautiful  of  all  feathered  creatures.*  A 
forest  of  all  manner  of  trees  is  poor,  if  not  disagreeable  in 
effect,  f  a  mass  of  one  species  of  tree  is  sublime.  It  is  there- 
fore only  harmonious  and  chordal  variety,  that  variety  which 
is  necessary  to  secure  and  extend  unity,  (for  the  greater  the 
number  of  objects,  which  by  their  differences  become  mem- 
bers of  one  another,  the  more  extended  and  sublime  is  their 
unity,)  which  is  rightly  agreeable,  and  so  I  name  not  variety 
as  essential  to  beauty,  because  it  is  only  so  in  a  secondary 
and  casual  sense.  J 

Of  the  love  of  change  as  a  principle  of  human  nature,  and 
the  pleasantness  of  variety  resulting  from  it,  something  has 
already  been  said,  (Ch.  IV.  §  4,)  only  as  there  I  was  oppos- 
ing the  idea  that  our  being  familiar  with  objects 
Its*  influence^on  was  the  cause  of  our  delight  in  them,  so  here,  I 
beauty.  have  to  opposc  the  contrary  position,  that  their 

strangeness  is  the  cause  of  it.  For  neither  familiarity  nor 
strangeness  have  more  operation  on,  or  connection  with, 
impressions  of  one  sense  than  of  another,  and  they  have  less 
power  over  the  impressions  of  sense  generally,  than  over  the 

*  Compare  Chap.  ix.  §  5,  note. 

f  Spenser's  various  forest  is  the  Forest  of  Error. 

X  It  must  be  matter  of  no  small  wonderment  to  practical  men  to 
observe  how  grossly  the  nature  and  connection  of  unity  and  variety 
have  been  misunderstood  and  misstated,  by  those  writers  upon  taste, 
who  have  been  guided  by  no  experience  of  art;  most  singularly  per- 
haps by  Mr.  Alison,  who,  confounding  unity  with  uniformity,  and  lead- 
ing his  readers  through  thirty  pages  of  discussion  respecting  uniform- 
ity and  variety,  the  intelligibility  of  which  is  not  by  any  means  in- 
creased by  his  supposing  uniformity  to  be  capable  of  existence  in  single 
things ;  at  last  substitutes  for  these  two  terms,  sufficiently  contradic- 
tory already,  those  of  similarity  and  dissimilarity,  the  reconciliation  of 
which  opposites  in  one  thing  we  must,  I  believe,  leave  Mr.  Alison  to 
accomplish. 


OF  UNITY, 


245 


intellect  in  its  joyful  accepting  of  fresh  knowledge,  and 
dull  contemplation  of  that  it  has  long  possessed.  Only  in 
their  operation  on  the  senses  they  act  contrariiy  at  different 
times,  as  for  instance  the  newness  of  a  dress  or  of  some  kind 
of  unaccustomed  food  may  make  it  for  a  time  delightful,  but 
as  the  novelty  passes  away,  so  also  may  the  delight,  yielding 
to  disgust  or  indifference,  which  in  their  turn,  as  custom  be- 
gins to  operate,  may  pass  into  affection  and  craving,  and 
that  which  was  first  a  luxury,  and  then  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence, becomes  a  necessity  :  *  whereas  in  subjects  of  the  intel- 
lect, the  chief  delight  they  convey  is  dependent  upon  their 
being  newly  and  vividly  comprehended,  and  as  they  become 
subjects  of  contemplation  they  lose  their  value,  and  become 
tasteless  and  unregarded,  except  as  instruments  for  the 
reaching  of  others,  only  that  though  they  sink  down  into  the 
shadowy,  effectless,  heap  of  things  indifferent,  which  we 
pack,  and  crush  down,  and  stand  upon,  to  reach  things  new, 
they  sparkle  afresh  at  intervals  as  we  stir  them  by  throwing 
a  new  stone  into  the  heap,  and  letting  the  newly  admitted 
lights  play  upon  them.  And  both  in  subjects  of  the  intel- 
lect and  the  senses  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  love  of 
change  is  a  weakness  and  imperfection  of  our  nature,  and 
implies  in  it  the  state  of  probation,  and  that  it  is  to  teach  us 
that  things  about  us  here  are  not  meant  for  our  continual 
possession  or  satisfaction,  that  ever  such  passion  of  change 
was  put  in  us  as  that  "  custom  lies  upon  us  with  a  weight, 
heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life,"  and  only  such  weak 
back  and  baby  grasp  given  to  our  intellect  as  that  the  best 
things  we  do  are  painful,  and  the  exercise  of  them  grievous, 
being  continued  without  intermission,  so  as  in  those  very 
actions  whereby  we  are  especially  perfected  in  this  life  we 
ery   mv,  1      ^  are  not  able  to  persist."    And  so  it  will  be 

§  7.   The  love  of  ^ 

change.    How  found  that  they  are  the  weakest-minded  and  the 

morbid  and  evil,    -i       ^        ^  ^ 

hardest-hearted  men  that  most  love  variety  and 
change,  for  the  weakest-minded  are  those  who  both  wonder 
most  at  things  new,  and  digest  w^orst  things  old,  in  so  far 

*  Ka\  rh  ravra  irpirreiv  ttoWolkis  i-j^v* — rh  yap  avy7]6€s  r)^v  Kol  rh  fxe- 
ra^dWiLU  ijBu'  us  fv^ii/  yap  yiyverai  ^^Tj-^aKkeiv, — Arisb.  Rhet.  I.  II.  30. 


246 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY, 


that  everything  they  have  lies  rusty,  and  loses  lustre  for 
want  of  use  ;  neither  do  they  make  any  stir  among  their 
possessions,  nor  look  over  them  to  see  what  may  be  made  of 
them,  nor  keep  any  great  store,  nor  are  householders  with 
storehouses  of  things  new  and  old,  but  they  catch  at  the 
new-fashioned  garments,  and  let  the  moth  and  thief  look 
after  the  rest  ;  and  the  hardest-hearted  men  are  those  that 
least  feel  the  endearing  and  binding  power  of  custom,  and 
hold  on  by  no  cords  of  affection  to  any  shore,  but  drive  with 
the  waves  that  cast  up  mire  and  dirt.  And  certainly  it  is 
not  to  be  held  that  the  perception  of  beauty  and  desire  of 
it,  are  greatest  in  the  hardest  heart  and  weakest  brain  ;  but 
the  love  of  variety  is  so,  and  therefore  variety  can  be  no 
cause  of  the  beautiful,  except,  as  I  have  said,  when  it  is  nec- 
essary for  the  perception  of  unity,  neither  is  there  any  bet- 
ter test  of  that  which  is  indeed  beautiful  than  its  surviving 
or  annihilating  the  love  of  change  ;  and  this  is  a  test  which 
the  best  judges  of  art  have  need  frequently  to  use  ;  and  the 
wisest  of  them  will  use  it  always,  for  there  is  much  in  art 
that  surprises  by  its  brilliancy,  or  attracts  by  its  singularity, 
that  can  hardly  but  by  course  of  time,  though  assuredly  it 
will  by  course  of  time,  be  winnowed  away  from  the  right  and 
real  beauty  whose  retentive  power  is  forever  on  the  increase, 
a  bread  of  the  soul  for  which  the  hunger  is  continual. 

Receiving,  therefore,  variety  only  as  that  which  accom- 
§8.  Theconduc-  plishes  Unity,  or  makes  it  perceived,  its  opera- 
wfrds^unU*/^of  ^^^^  fouud  to  be  Very  precious,  both  in  that 
subjection.  which  I  have  called  unity  of  subjection,  and  unity 
of  sequence,  as  well  as  in  unity  of  membership  ;  for  although 
things  in  all  respects  the  same  may,  indeed,  be  subjected  to 
one  influence,  yet  the  power  of  the  influence,  and  their  obe- 
dience to  it,  is  best  seen  by  varied  operation  of  it  on  their  in- 
dividual differences,  as  in  clouds  and  waves  there  is  a  glorious 
unity  of  rolling,  wrought  out  by  the  wild  and  wonderful  dif- 
ferences of  their  absolute  forms,  which,  if  taken  away,  would 
leave  in  them  only  multitudinous  and  petty  repetition,  instead 
of  the  majestic  oneness  of  shared  passion.  And  so  in  the 
waves  and  clouds  of  human  multitude  when  they  are  filled 


OF  UNITY, 


247 


with  one  thought,  as  we  find  frequently  in  the  works  of  the 
early  Italian  men  of  earnest  purpose,  who  despising,  or  hap- 
pily ignorant  of,  the  sophistications  of  theories,  and  the  pro- 
prieties of  composition,  indicated  by  perfect  similarity  of  ac- 
tion and  gesture  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  the  infinite  and 
truthful  variation  of  expression  on  the  other,  the  most  sublime 
strength  because  the  most  absorbing  unity,  of  multitudinous 
passion  that  ever  human  heart  conceived.  Hence,  in  the 
cloister  of  St.  Mark's,  the  intense,  fixed,  statue-like  silence 
of  ineffable  adoration  upon  the  spirits  in  prison  at  the  feet  of 
Christ,  side  by  side,  the  hands  lifted,  and  the  knees  bowed, 
and  the  lips  trembling  together  ;  *  and  in  St.  Domenico  of 
Fiesole,  f  that  whirlwind  rush  of  the  Angels  and  the  re- 
deemed souls  round  about  him  at  his  resurrection,  so  that  we 
hear  the  blast  of  the  horizontal  trumpets  mixed  with  the  dy- 
ing clangor  of  their  ingathered  wings.  The  same  great  feel- 
ing occurs  throughout  the  works  of  the  serious  men,  though 
most  intensely  in  Angelico,  and  it  is  well  to  compare  with  it 
the  vileness  and  falseness  of  all  that  succeeded,  when  men 
had  begun  to  bring  to  the  cross  foot  their  systems  instead  of 
their  sorrow.  Take  as  the  most  marked  and  degraded  in- 
stance, perhaps,  to  be  anywhere  found,  Bronzino's  treat- 
ment of  the  same  subject  (Christ  visiting  the  spirits  in 
prison,)  in  the  picture  now  in  the  Tuscan  room  of  the  Uffizii, 
which,  vile  as  it  is  in  color,  vacant  in  invention,  void  in  light 
and  shade,  a  heap  of  cumbrous  nothingnesses,  and  sickening 
offensivenesses,  is  of  all  its  voids  most  void  in  this,  that 
the  academy  models  therein  huddled  together  at  the  bottom, 

*  Fra  Angelico's  fresco,  in  a  cell  of  the  upper  cloister.  He  treated 
the  subject  frequently.  Another  characteristic  example  occurs  in  the 
Vita  di  Christo  of  the  Academy,  a  series  now  unfortunately  destroyed  by 
the  picture  cleaners.  Simon  Memmi  in  Santa  Maria  Novella  (Chapelle 
des  Espagnols)  has  g-iven  another  very  beautiful  instance.  In  Giotto 
the  priDciple  is  universal,  though  his  multitudes  are  somewhat  more 
dramatically  and  powerfully  varied  in  gesture  than  Angelico's.  In  Mino 
da  Fiesole's  altar-piece  in  the  church  of  St.  Ambrogiot  at  Florence, 
close  by  Cosimo  Rosselli's  fresco,  there  is  a  beautiful  example  in  mar- 
ble. 

f  The  Predella  of  the  picture  behind  the  altar. 


248 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


show  not  so  much  unity  or  community  of  attention  to  the 
academy  model  with  the  flag  in  its  hand  above,  as  a  street 
crowd  would  be  to  a  fresh-staged  charlatan,  ^ome  point  to 
the  God  who  has  burst  the  gates  of  death,  as  if  the  rest  were 
incapable  of  distinguishing  him  for  themselves,  and  others 
turn  their  backs  upon  him,  to  show  their  unagitated  faces  to 
the  spectator. 

In  unity  of  sequence,  the  effect  of  variety  is  best  exempli- 
fied by  the  melodies  of  music,  wherein  by  the  differences  of 
the  notes,  they  are  connected  with  each  other  in  certain 
pleasant  relations.  This  connection  taking"  place 

§  9.  And  towards    f  ...  .  .  ,  .  , 

unity  ofse-  in  quantities  IS  proportion,  respecting  which  cer- 
quence.  ^^.^  general  principles  must  be  noted,  as  the 

subject  is  one  open  to  many  errors,  and  obscurely  treated  of 
by  writers  on  art. 

Proportion  is  of  two  distinct  kinds.  Apparent  :  when  it 
takes  place  between  qualities  for  the  sake  of  connection  only, 
without  any  ultimate  object  or  casual  necessity  ;  and  con- 
§10.  The  nature  structive  :  whcu  it  has  reference  to  some  func- 
ift,  of  apparent  ^^^^  ^o  be  discharged  by  the  quantities,  depend- 
proportion.  jj^g  their  proportion.  From  the  confusion 
of  these  two  kinds  of  proportion  have  arisen  the  greater  part 
of  the  erroneous  conceptions  of  the  influence  of  either. 

Apparent  proportion,  or  the  sensible  relation  of  quantities, 
is  one  of  the  most  important  means  of  obtaining  unity  be- 
tween things  which  otherwise  must  have  remained  distinct 
in  similarity,  and  as  it  may  consist  with  every  other  kind  of 
unity,  and  persist  when  every  other  means  of  it  fails,  it  may 
be  considered  as  lying  at  the  root  of  most  of  our  impressions 
of  the  beautiful.  There  is  no  sense  of  rightness,  or  wrong- 
ness  connected  with  it,  no  sense  of  utility,  propriety,  or  ex- 
pediency. These  ideas  enter  only  where  the  proportion  of 
quantities  has  reference  to  some  function  to  be  performed 
by  them.  It  cannot  be  asserted  that  it  is  right  or  that  it  is 
wrong  that  A  should  be  to  B,  as  B  to  C  ;  unless  A,  B,  and 
C  have  some  desirable  operation  dependent  on  that  relation. 
But  nevertheless  it  may  be  highly  agreeable  to  the  eye  that 
A,  B,  and  C,  if  visible  things,  should  have  visible  connection 


OF  UNITY, 


240 


of  ratio,  even  though  nothing  be  accomplished  by  such  con- 
nection. On  the  other  hand,  constructive  proportion,  or  tlie 
adaptation  of  quantities  to  functions,  is  agreeable  not  to  the 
eye,  but  to  the  mind,  which  is  cognizant  of  the  function  to 
be  performed.  Thus  the  pleasantness  or  rightness  of  the 
proportions  of  a  column  depends  not  on  the  mere  relation  of 
diameter  and  height,  (which  is  not  proportion  at  all,  for  pro- 
portion is  between  three  terms  at  least,)  but  on  three  other 
involved  terms,  the  strength  of  materials,  the  weight  to  be 
borne,  and  the  scale  of  the  building.  The  proportions  of  a 
wooden  column  are  wrong  in  a  stone  one,  and  of  a  small 
building  wrong  in  a  large  one,*  and  this  owing  solely  to  me- 

*  It  seems  never  to  have  been  rightly  understood,  even  by  the  more 
intelligent  among  our  architects,  that  proportion  is  in  any  way  connect- 
ed with  positive  size ;  it  seems  to  be  held  among  them  that  a  small 
building  may  be  expanded  to  a  large  one  merely  by  proportionally  ex- 
panding all  its  parts  :  and  that  the  harmony  will  be  equally  agreeable 
on  whatever  scale  it  be  rendered.  Now  this  is  true  of  apparent  pro- 
portion, but  utterly  false  of  constructive ;  and,  as  much  of  the  value  of 
architectural  proportion  is  constructive,  the  error  is  often  productive 
of  the  most  painful  results.  It  may  be  best  illustrated  by  observing 
the  conditions  of  proportion  in  animals.  Many  persons  have  thought- 
lessly claimed  admiration  for  the  strength — supposed  gigantic — of  in- 
sects and  smaller  animals ;  because  capable  of  lifting  weights,  leaping 
distances,  and  surmounting  obstacles,  of  proportion  apparently  over- 
whelming. Thus  the  Formica  Herculanea  will  lift  in  its  mouth,  and 
brandish  like  a  baton,  sticks  thicker  than  itself  and  six  times  its  length, 
all  the  while  scrambling  over  crags  of  about  the  proportionate  height  of 
the  ClifPs  of  Dover,  three  or  four  in  a  minute.  There  is  nothing  extra- 
ordinary in  this,  nor  any  exertion  of  strength  necessarily  greater  than 
human,  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  body.  For  it  is  evident  that  if 
the  size  and  strength  of  any  creature  be  expanded  or  diminished  in  pro- 
portion to  each  other,  the  dis:ance  through  which  it  can  leap,  the  time 
it  can  maintain  exertion,  or  any  other  third  term  resultant,  remains 
constant ;  that  is,  diminish  weight  of  powder  and  of  ball  proportionately, 
and  the  distance  carried  is  constant  or  nearly  so.  Thus,  a  grasshop- 
per, a  man,  and  a  giant  100  feet  high,  supposing  their  muscular  strength 
equally  proportioned  to  their  size,  can  or  could  all  leap,  not  proportion- 
ate distance,  but  the  same  or  nearly  the  same  distance — say,  four  feet 
the  grasshopper,  or  forty-eight  times  his  length  ;  six  feet  the  man  or 
his  length  exactly  ;  ten  feet  the  giant  or  the  tenth  of  his  length.  Hence 
all  small  animals  can,  aeteris  paribus^  perform  feats  of  strength  and 


250 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


chanical  considerations,  which  have  no  more  to  do  with  ideas 
of  beauty,  than  the  relation  between  the-  arms  of  a  lever, 
adapted  to  the  raising  of  a  given  weight  ;  and  yet  it  is  highly 

agility,  exactly  so  much  greater  than  those  to  be  executed  by  large 
ones,  as  the  animals  themselves  are  smaller ;  and  to  enable  an  elephant 
to  leap  like  a  grasshopper,  he  must  be  endowed  with  strength  a  million 
times  greater  in  propoi^tion  to  his  size.  Now  the  consequence  of  this 
general  mechanical  law  is,  that  as  we  increase  the  scale  of  animals, 
their  means  of  power,  whether  muscles  of  motion  or  bones  of  support, 
must  be  increased  in  a  more  than  proportionate  degree,  or  they  be- 
come utterly  unwieldy,  and  incapable  of  motion  ; — and  there  is  a  limit 
to  this  increase  of  strength.  If  the  elephant  had  legs  as  long  as  a 
spider's,  no  combination  of  animal  matter  that  could  be  hide-bound 
would  have  strength  enough  to  move  them :  to  support  the  megathe- 
rium, we  must  have  a  humerus  a  foot  in  diameter,  though  perhaps  not 
more  than  two  feet  long,  and  that  in  a  vertical  position  under  him, 
while  the  gnat  can  hang  on  the  window  frame,  and  poise  himself  to 
sting,  in  the  middle  of  crooked  stilts  like  threads ;  stretched  out  to  ten 
times  the  breadth  of  his  body  on  each  side.  Increase  the  size  of  the 
megatherium  a  little  more,  and  no  phosphate  of  lime  will  bear  him  ; 
he  would  crush  his  own  legs  to  powder.  (Compare  Sir  Charles  Bell, 
Bridge  water  Treatise  on  the  Hand,"  p.  296,  and  the  note.)  Hence 
there  is  not  only  a  limit  to  the  size  of  animals,  in  the  conditions  of  mat- 
ter, but  to  their  activity  also,  the  largest  being  always  least  capable  of 
exertion  ;  and  this  would  be  the  case  to  a  far  greater  extent,  but  that 
nature  beneficently  alters  her  proportions  as  she  increases  her  scale ; 
giving,  as  we  have  seen,  long  legs  and  enormous  wings  to  the  smaller 
tribes,  and  short  and  thick  proportion  to  the  larger.  So  in  vegetables 
— compare  the  stalk  of  an  ear  of  oat,  and  the  trunk  of  a  pine,  the  me- 
chanical relations  being  in  both  the  same.  So  also  in  waves,  of  which 
the  large  never  can  be  mere  exaggerations  of  the  small,  bat  have  dif- 
ferent slopes  and  curvatures  :  so  in  mountains  and  all  things  else,  neces- 
sarily, and  from  ordinary  mechanical  laws.  Whence  in  architecture, 
according  to  the  scale  of  the  building,  its  proportions  must  be  altered  ; 
and  I  have  no  hesitation  in  calling  that  unmeaning  exaggeration  of 
parts  in  St.  Peter's,  of  flutings,  volutes,  friezes,  etc.,  in  the  propor- 
tions of  a  smaller  building,  a  vulgar  blunder,  and  one  that  destroys  all 
the  majesty  that  the  building  ought  to  have  had — and  still  more  I 
should  so  call  all  imitations  and  adaptations  of  large  buildings  on  a 
small  scale.  The  true  test  of  right  proportion  is  that  it  shall  itself  in- 
form us  of  the  scale  of  the  building,  and  be  such  that  even  in  a  draw- 
ing it  shall  instantly  induce  the  conception  of  the  actual  size,  or  size  in- 
tended. I  know  not  what  Fuseli  means  by  that  aphorism  of  his  :  — 
Disproportion  of  parts  is  the  element  of  hugeness — proportion,  of 


OF  UNITY. 


251 


agreeable  to  perceive  that  such  constructive  proportion  has 
been  duly  observed,  as  it  is  agreeable  to  see  that  anything 
is  fit  for  its  purpose  or  for  ours,  and  also  that  it  has  been  the 
result  of  intelligence  in  the  workman  of  it,  so  that  we  some- 
times feel  a  pleasure  in  apparent  non-adaptation,  if  it  be  a 
sign  of  ingenuity  ;  as  in  the  unnatural  and  seemingly  im- 
possible lightness  of  Gothic  spires  and  roofs. 

Now,  the  errors  against  which  I  would  caution  the  reader 
in  this  matter  are  three.  The  first,  is  the  overlooking  or  de- 
nial of  the  power  of  apparent  proportion,  of  which  power 
neither  Burke  nor  any  other  writer  whose  works  I  have  met 
with,  takes  cognizance.  The  second,  is  the  attribution  of 
beaut]/  to  the  appearances  of  constructive  proportion.  The 
third,  the  denial  with  Burke  of  a7i7/  value  or  agreeableness 
in  constructive  proportion. 

Now,  the  full  proof  of  the  influence  of  appar- 

§  11.  The  value  of        .  j  ,  £       '^^     ^  f- 

apparent  propor-  cut  proportion,  i  must  reservc  lor  illustration 

tion.  in  curvature,   it  x        •     ^  i 

by  diagram  ;  one  or  two  instances  however  may 
be  given  at  present  for  the  better  understanding  of  its  nature. 

We  have  already  asserted  that  all  curves  are  more  beauti- 
ful than  right  lines.  All  curves,  however,  are  not  equally 
beautiful,  and  their  differences  of  beauty  depend  on  the  dif- 
ferent proportions  borne  to  each  other  by  those  infinitely  small 
right  lines  of  which  they  may  be  conceived  as  composed. 

When  these  lines  are  equal  and  contain  equal  angles,  there 
can  be  no  connection  or  unity  of  sequence  in  them.  The 
resulting  curve,  the  circle,  is  therefore  the  least  beautiful  of 
all  curves. 

When  the  lines  bear  to  each  other  some  certain  proportion  ; 
or  when,  the  lines  remaining  equal,  the  angles  vary  ;  or  when 
by  any  means  whatsoever,  and  in  whatever  complicated  modes, 
such  differences  as  shall  imply  connection  are  established  be- 
tween the  infinitely  small  segments,  the  resulting  curves  be- 

grandeur.  All  Gothic  styles  of  Architecture  are  huge.  The  Greek 
alone  is  grand."  When  a  building  is  vast,  it  ought  to  look  so  ;  and  the 
proportion  is  right  which  exhibits  its  vastness.  Nature  loses  no  size  by 
her  proportion  ;  her  buttressed  mountains  have  more  of  Gothic  than  of 
Greek  in  them. 


252 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


come  beautiful.  The  simplest  of  the  beautiful  curves  are  the 
conic,  and  the  various  spirals  ;  but  it  is  as  rash  as  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  endeavor  to  trace  any  ground  of  superiority  or  infe- 
riority among  the  infinite  numbers  of  the  higher  curves.  I 
believe  that  almost  all  are  beautiful  in  their  own  nature,  and 
that  their  comparative  beauty  depends  on  the  constant  quan- 
tities involved  in  their  equations.  Of  this  point  I  shall  speak 
hereafter  at  greater  length. 

The  universal  forces  of  nature,  and  the  individual  energies 
of  the  matter  submitted  to  them,  are  so  appointed  and  bal- 
anced, that  they  are  continually  bringing  out  curves  of  this 
kind  in  all  visible  forms,  and  that  circular  lines 
lre^ib?2nedf  become  nearly  impossible  under  any  circum- 
stances. The  gradual  acceleration,  for  instance, 
of  velocity,  in  streams  that  descend  from  hill-sides,  as  it  grad- 
ually increases  their  power  of  erosion  increases  in  the  same 
gradual  degree  the  rate  of  curvature  in  the  descent  of  the 
slope,  until  at  a  certain  degree  of  steepness  this  descent 
meets,  and  is  concealed  by  the  right  line  of  the  detritus.  The 
junction  of  this  right  line  with  the  plain  is  again  modified  by 
the  farther  bounding  of  the  larger  blocks,  and  by  the  succes- 
sively diminishing  proportion  of  landslips  caused  by  erosion 
at  the  bottom,  so  that  the  whole  line  of  the  hill  is  one  of  cur- 
vature, first,  gradually  increasing  in  rapidity  to  the  maximum 
steepness  of  which  the  particular  rock  is  capable,  and  then 
decreasing  in  a  decreasing  ratio,  until  it  arrives  at  the  plain 
level.  This  type  of  form,  modified  of  course  more  or  less  by 
the  original  boldness  of  the  mountain,  and  dependent  both 
on  its  age,  its  constituent  rock,  and  the  circumstances- of  its 
exposure,  is  yet  in  its  general  formula  applicable  to  all.  So 
the  curves  of  all  things  in  motion,  and  of  all  organic  forms, 
most  rudely  and  simply  in  the  shell  spirals,  and  in  their  most 
complicated  development  in  the  muscular  lines  of  the  higher 
animals. 

This  influence  of  apparent  proportion,  a  proportion,  be  it 
observed,  which  has  no  reference  to  ultimate  ends,  but  which 
is  itself,  seemingly,  the  end  and  object  of  operation  in  many 
of  the  forces  of  nature,  is  therefore  at  the  root  of  all  our  de- 


OF  UNITY. 


253 


light  in  any  beautiful  form  whatsoever.  For  no  form  can  be 
beautiful  which  is  not  composed  of  curves  whose  unity  is  se- 
cured by  relations  of  this  kind. 

Not  only  however  in  curvature,  but  in  all  associations  of 
lines  whatsoever,  it  is  desirable  that  there  should  be  reciprocal 
relation,  and  the  eye  is  unhappy  without  perception  of  it.  It 
is  utterly  vain  to  endeavor  to  reduce  this  pro- 

§  13.      Apparent  .        .  i         p       'i.  • 

proportion  in  mei-  portion  to  finite  rules,  tor  it  IS  as  various  as 
odiesof  line.  musical  melody,  and  the  laws  to  which  it  is  sub- 
ject are  of  the  same  general  kind,  so  that  the  determination 
of  right  or  wrong  proportion  is  as  much  a  matter  of  feeling 
and  experience  as  the  appreciation  of  good  musical  composi- 
tion ;  not  but  that  there  is  a  science  of  both,  and  principles 
which  may  not  be  infringed,  but  that  within  these  limits  the 
liberty  of  invention  is  infinite,  and  the  degrees  of  excellence 
infinite  also,  whence  the  curious  error  of  Burke  in  imagining 
that  because  he  could  not  fix  upon  some  one  given  proportion 
of  lines  as  better  than  any  other,  therefore  proportion  had  no 
value  nor  influence  at  all,  which  is  the  same  as  to  conclude 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  melody  in  music,  because  there 
are  melodies  more  than  one. 

The  argument  of  Burke  on  this  subject  is  summed  up  in 
the  following  words  : — "  Examine  the  head  of  a  beautiful 
horse,  find  what  proportion  that  bears  to  his  body  and  to  his 
limbs,  and  what  relations  these  have  to  each 

§14.    Error   of        ,  ^      ,  ,  i    -,  i 

Burke  in  this  mat-  Other,  and  when  you  have  settled  these  propor- 
*^^*  tions,  as  a  standard  of  beauty,  then  take  a  dog 

or  cat,  or  any  other  animal,  and  examine  how  far  the  same 
proportions  between  their  heads  and  their  necks,  between 
those  and  the  body,  and  so  on,  are  found  to  hold  ;  I  think  we 
may  safely  say,  that  they  differ  in  every  species,  yet  that 
there  are  individuals  found  in  a  great  many  species,  so  dif- 
fering, that  have  a  very  striking  beauty.  Now  if  it  be  allowed 
that  very  different,  and  even  contrary  forms  and  dispositions, 
are  consistent  with  beauty,  it  amounts,  I  believe,  to  a  con- 
cession, that  no  certain  measures  operating  from  a  natural 
principle  are  necessary  to  produce  it,  at  least  so  far  as  the 
brute  species  is  concerned." 


254 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY, 


In  this  argument  there  are  three  very  palpable  fallacies  : 
the  first  is  the  rough  application  of  measurement  to  the  heads, 
necks,  and  limbs,  without  observing  the  subtile  differences 
of  proportion  and  position  of  parts  in  the  members  themselves, 
for  it  would  be  strange  if  the  different  adjustment  of  the  ears 
and  brow  in  the  dog  and  horse,  did  not  require  a  harmonizing 
difference  of  adjustment  in  the  head  and  neck.  The  second 
fallacy  is  that  above  specified,  the  supposition  that  proportion 
cannot  be  beautiful  if  susceptible  of  variation,  whereas  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  term  has  reference  to  the  adjustment 
and  functional  correspondence  of  infinitely  variable  quanti- 
ties. And  the  third  error  is  the  oversight  of  the  very  im- 
portant fact,  that,  although  "  different  and  even  contrary 
forms  and  dispositions  are  consistent  with  beauty,"  they  are 
by  no  means  consistent  with  equal  degrees  of  beauty,  so  that, 
while  we  find  in  all  the  presence  of  such  proportion  and  har- 
mony of  form,  as  gifts  them  with  positive  agreeableness  con- 
sistent with  the  station  and  dignity  of  each,  we  perceive,  also, 
such  superiority  of  proportion  in  some  (as  the  horse,  eagle, 
lion,  and  man  for  instance)  as  may  best  be  in  harmony  with 
the  nobler  functions  and  more  exalted  powers  of  the  animals. 

And  this  allowed  superiority  of  some  animal  forms  to  others 
is,  in  itself,  argument  against  the  second  error  above  named, 
that  of  attributing  the  sensation  of  beauty  to  the  perception 
of  expedient  or  constructive  proportion.  For 
proportion.  Its  in-  everything  that  God  has  made  is  equally  well 
fluence  in  plants.  QQ^gtructed  with  reference  to  its  intended  func- 
tions. But  all  things  are  not  equally  beautiful.  The  mega- 
therium is  absolutely  as  well  proportioned,  with  the  view  of 
adaptation  of  parts  to  purposes,  as  the  horse  or  the  swan  ; 
but  by  no  means  so  handsome  as  either.  The  fact  is,  that  the 
perception  of  expediency  of  proportion  can  but  rarely  affect 
our  estimates  of  beauty,  for  it  implies  a  knowledge  which  w^e 
very  rarely  and  imperfectly  possess,  and  the  want  of  which 
we  tacitly  acknowledge. 

Let  us  consider  that  instance  of  the  proportion  of  the  stalk 
of  a  plant  to  its  head,  given  by  Burke.  In  order  to  judge 
of  the  expediency  of  this  proportion,  we  must  know,  First, 


OF  UNITY. 


255 


the  scale  of  the  plant  (for  the  smaller  the  scale,  the  longer 
the  stem  may  safely  be).  Secondly,  the  toughness  oi  the  ma- 
terials of  the  stem  and  the  mode  of  their  mechanical  struct- 
ure. Thirdly,  the  specific  gravity  of  the  head.  Fourthly, 
the  position  of  the  head  which  the  nature  of  fructification  re- 
quires. Fifthly,  the  accidents  and  influences  to  which  the 
situation  for  which  the  plant  was  created  is  exposed.  Until 
we  know  all  this,  we  cannot  say  that  proportion  or  dispropor- 
tion exists,  and  because  we  cannot  know  all  this,  the  idea  of 
expedient  proportion  enters  but  slightly  into  our  impression 
of  vegetable  beauty,  but  rather,  since  the  existence  of  the 
plant  proves  that  these  proportions  have  been  observed,  and 
we  know  that  nothing  but  our  own  ignorance  prevents  us 
from  perceiving  them,  we  take  the  proportion  on  credit,  and 
are  delighted  by  the  variety  of  results  which  the  Divine  in- 
telligence has  attained  in  the  various  involutions  of  these 
quantities,  and  perhaps  most  when,  to  outward  appearance, 
such  proportions  have  been  violated  ;  more  by  the  slender- 
ness  of  the  campanula  than  the  security  of  the  pine. 

What  is  obscure  in  plants,  is  utterly  incomprehensible  in 
animals,  owing  to  the  greater  number  of  means  employed  and 
functions  performed.  To  judge  of  expedient  proportion  in 
them,  we  must  know  all  that  each  member  has 
'  to  do,  all  its  bones,  all  its  muscles,  and  the  amount 
of  nervous  energy  communicable  to  them  ;  and  yet,  foras- 
much as  we  have  more  experience  and  instinctive  sense  of  the 
strength  of  muscles  than  of  wood,  and  more  practical  knowl- 
edge of  the  use  of  a  head  or  afoot  than  of  a  flower  or  a  stem, we 
are  much  more  likely  to  presume  upon  our  judgment  respect- 
ing proportions  here,  we  are  very  apt  to  assert  that  the  plesio- 
saurus  and  camelopard  have  necks  too  long,  that  the  turnspit 
has  legs  too  short,  and  the  elephant  a  body  too  ponderous. 

But' the  painfulness  arising  from  the  idea  of  this  being  the 
case  is  occasioned  partly  by  our  sympathy  with  the  animal, 
partly  by  our  false  apprehension  of  incompletion  in  the  Divine 
work,*  nor  in  either  case  has  it  any  connection  with  impres- 

*  For  the  just  and  severe  reproof  of  which,  compare  Sir  Charles  Bell, 
(on  the  hand,)  pp.  31,  32. 


256 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY, 


sions  of  that  typical  beauty  of  which  we  are  at  present  speak- 
ing ;  though  some,  perhaps,  with  that  vital  beauty  which  will 
hereafter  come  under  discussion. 

I  wish  therefore  the  reader  to  hold,  respecting  proportion 
generally,  First,  That  apparent  proportion,  or  the  melodious 
connection  of  quantities,  is  a  cause  of  unity,  and  therefore 
one  of  the  sources  of  all  beautiful  form.  Sec- 
§  17.  Summary.  ^^^^ ^  That  Constructive  proportion  is  agreeable 
to  the  mind  when  it  is  known  or  supposed,  and  that  its  seem- 
ing absence  is  painful  in  alike  degree,  but  that  this  pleasure 
and  pain  have  nothing  in  common  with  those  dependent  on 
ideas  of  beauty. 

Farther  illustrations  of  the  value  of  unity  I  shall  reserve 
for  our  detailed  examination,  as  the  bringing  them  forward 
here  would  interfere  with  the  general  idea  of  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  theoretic  faculty  which  'I  wish  succinctly  to 
convey. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OF  REPOSE,  OR  THE  TYPE  OF  DIVINE  PERMANENCE. 

There  is  probably  no  necessity  more  imperatively  felt  by 
the  artist,  no  test  more  unfailing  of  the  greatness  of  artisti- 
cal  treatment,  than  that  of  the  appearance  of  repose,  and  yet 
,  there  is  no  quality  whose  semblance  in  mere 

§  1.     Universal  . 

feeling  respect-  matter  is  more  difficult  to  define  or  illustrate. 

ing  the  necessity  .       .        .  , 

of  repose  in  art.  Nevertheless,  I  beheve  that  our  instinctive  love 
s  sources.  of  it,  as  well  as  the  cause  to  which  I  attribute 
that  love,  (although  here  also,  as  in  the  former  cases,  I  contend 
not  for  the  interpretation,  but  for  the  fact,)  will  be  readily 
allowed  by  the  reader.  As  opposed  to  passion,  changeful- 
ncss,  or  laborious  exertion,  repose  is  the  especial  and  separat- 
ing characteristic  of  the  eternal  mind  and  power  ;  it  is  the 
"I  am"  of  the  Creator  opposed  to  the  I  become"  of  all 
creatures  ;  it  is  the  sign  alike  of  the  supreme  knowledge 
which  is  incapable  of  surprise,  the  supreme  power  which  is 
incapable  of  labor,  the  supreme  volition  which  is  incapable  of 


OF  REPOSE, 


257 


change  ;  it  is  the  stillness  of  the  beams  of  the  eternal  cham« 
bers  laid  upon  the  variable  waters  of  ministering  creatures  ; 
and  as  we  saw  before  that  the  infinity  which  was  a  type  of 
the  Divine  nature  on  the  one  hand,  became  yet  more  desira- 
ble on  the  other  from  its  peculiar  address  to  our  prison  hopes, 
and  to  the  expectations  of  an  unsatisfied  and  unaccomplished 
existence,  so  the  types  of  this  third  attribute  of  the  Deity 
might  seem  to  have  been  rendered  farther  attractive  to  mor- 
tal instinct,  through  the  infliction  upon  the  fallen  creature 
of  a  curse  necessitating  a  labor  once  unnatural  and  still  most 
painful,  so  that  the  desire  of  rest  planted  in  the  heart  is  no 
sensual  nor  unworthy  one,  but  a  longing  for  renovation  and 
for  escape  from  a  state  whose  every  phase  is  mere  prepara- 
tion for  another  equally  transitory,  to  one  in  which  perma- 
nence shall  have  become  possible  through  perfection.  Hence 
the  great  call  of  Christ  to  men,  that  call  on  which  St.  Augus- 
tine fixed  essential  expression  of  Christian  hope,  is  accom- 
panied by  the  promise  of  rest  ;  *  and  the  death  bequest  of 
Christ  to  men  is  peace. 

Repose,  as  it  is  expressed  in  material  things,  is  either  a 
simple  appearance  of  permanence  and  quietness,  as  in  the 
massy  forms  of  a  mountain  or  rock,  accompanied  by  the  lull- 
§2   Repose  cffcct  of  all  mighty  sight  and  sound,  which 

how  expressed  in  all  feel  and  nonc  define,  (it  would  be  less  sacred 

matter.  .  .  ^ 

if  more  explicable,)  'ivhovcnv  Slopiojv  Kopv<^ai  re  koL 
€j>dpayy€s,  or  else  it  is  repose  proper,  the  rest  of  things  in 
which  there  is  vitality  or  capability  of  motion  actual  or  imag- 
ined ;  and  with  respect  to  these  the  expression  of  repose  is 
greater  in  proportion  to  the  amount  and  sublimity  of  the  ac- 
tion which  is  not  taking  place,  as  well  as  to  the  intensity  of  the 
negation  of  it.  Thus  we  speak  not  of  repose  in  a  stone,  be- 
cause the  motion  of  a  stone  has  nothing  in  it  of  energy  nor 
vitality,  neither  its  repose  of  stability.  But  having  once 
seen  a  great  rock  come  down  a  mountain  side,  we  have  a 
noble  sensation  of  its  rest,  now  bedded  immovably  among  the 
under  fern,  because  the  power  and  fearfulness  of  its  motion 


*  Matt.  xi.  28. 

Vol.  II.— 17 


258 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


were  great,  and  its  stability  and  negation  of  motion  are  now 
great  in  proportion.  Hence  the  imagination,  which  delights 
in  nothing  more  than  the  enhancing  of  the  characters  of  re- 
pose, effects  this  usually  by  either  attributing  to  things  vis- 
ibly energetic  an  ideal  stability,  or  to  things  visibly  stable  an 
ideal  activity  or  vitality.  Hence  Wordsworth,  of  the  cloud, 
which  in  itself  having  too  much  of  changef ulness  for  his  pur- 
pose, is  spoken  of  as  one  "  that  heareth  not  the  loud  winds 
when  they  call,  and  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all." 
And  again  of  children,  which,  that  it  may  remove  from  them 
the  child  restlessness,  the  imagination  conceives  as  rooted 
flowers  "  Beneath  an  old  gray  oak,  as  violets,  lie."  On  the 
other  hand,  the  scattered  rocks,  which  have  not,  as  such,  vi- 
tality enough  for  rest,  are  gifted  with  it  by  the  living  image: 
they  "  lie  couched  around  us  like  a  flock  of  sheep." 

Thus,  as  we  saw  that  unity  demanded  for  its  expression 
what  at  first  miarht  have  seemed  its  contrary 

§  3.    The  neces-    .       .    .    v  ,  j     i»  • 

sity  to  repose  of  (variety)  SO  repose  demands  for  its  expression 
an  implied  energy. ^j^^  implied  Capability  of  its  opposite,  energy, 
and  this  even  in  its  lower  manifestations,  in  rocks  and  stones 
and  trees.  By  comparing  the  modes  in  which  the  mind  is 
disposed  to  regard  the  boughs  of  a  fair  and  vigorous  tree, 
motionless  in  the  summer  air,  with  the  effect  produced  by  one 
of  these  same  boughs  hewn  square  and  used  for  threshold  or 
lintel,  the  reader  will  at  once  perceive  the  connection  of  vi- 
tality with  repose,  and  the  part  they  both  bear  in  beauty. 

But  that  which  in  lifeless  things  ennobles  them  by  seeming 
to  indicate  life,  ennobles  higher  creatures  by  indicating  the 
exaltation  of  their  earthly  vitality  into  a  Divine  vitality  ; 
§4.  Mental  re-  raising  the  life  of  sense  into  the  life  of 

pose,  how  noble,  f^ith — faith,  whether  we  receive  it  in  the  sense 
of  adherence  to  resolution,  obedience  to  law,  regardfulness 
of  promise,  in  which  from  all  time  it  has  been  the  test  as  the 
shield  of  the  true  being  and  life  of  man,  or  in  the  still 
higher  sense  of  trustfulness  in  the  presence,  kindness,  and 
word  of  God  ;  in  which  form  it  has  been  exhibited  under  the 
Christian  dispensation.  For  whether  in  one  or  other  form, 
whether  the  faithfulness  of  men  whose  path  is  chosen  and 


OF  REPOSE. 


259 


portion  fixed,  in  the  following  and  receiving  of  that  path 
and  portion,  as  in  the  Thermopylag  camp  ;  or  the  happier 
faithfulness  of  children  in  the  good  giving  of  their  Father, 
and  of  subjects  in  the  conduct  of  their  king,  as  in  the 
"  Stand  still  and  see  the  salvation  of  God  "  of  the  Red  Sea 
shore,  there  is  rest  and  peacefulness,  the  "standing  still"  in 
both,  the  quietness  of  action  determined,  of  spirit  unalarmed, 
of  expectation  unimpatient  :  beautiful,  even  when '  based 
only  as  of  old,  on  the  self-command  and  self-possession,  the 
persistent  dignity  or  the  uncalculating  love  of  the  creature,* 
but  more  beautiful  yet  when  the  rest  is  one  of  humility  in- 
stead of  pride,  and  the  trust  no  more  in  the  resolution  we 
have  taken,  but  in  the  hand  we  hold. 

Hence  I  think  that  there  is  no  desire  more  intense  or  more 
exalted  than  that  which  exists  in  all  rightly  disciplined 
minds  for  the  evidences  of  repose  in  external  signs,  and  what 

I  cautiously  said  respecting  infinity,  I  say  fear- 
sai  vaiue^'ara  lessly  respecting  repose,  that  no  work  of  art  can 
test  of  art.  great  without  it,  and  that  all  art  is  great  fh 

proportion  to  the  appearance  of  it.  It  is  the  most  unfailing 
test  of  beauty,  whether  of  matter  or  of  motion,  nothing  can  be 
ignoble  that  possesses  it,  nothing  right  that  has  it  not,  and 
in  strict  proportion  to  its  appearance  in  the  work  is  the 
majesty  of  mind  to  be  inferred  in  the  artificer.  Without  re- 
gard to  other  qualities,  we  may  look  to  this  for  our  evidence, 
and  by  the  search  for  this  alone  we  may  be  led  to  the  rejec- 
*    The  universal  instinct  of  repose, 

The  longing  for  confirmed  tranquillity 

Inward  and  outward,  humble,  yet  sublime. 

The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one. 

Earth  quiet  and  unchanged  ;  the  human  soul 

Consistent  in  self  rule  ;  and  heaven  revealed 

To  meditation,  in  that  quietness." 

Wordsworth.    Excursion,  Book  ill. 
But  compare  carefully  (for  this  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  one  diseased 
N    in  thought  and  erring  in  seeking)  the  opening  of  the  ninth  book  ;  and 
observe  the  difference  between  the  mildew  of  inaction, — the  slumber 
of  Death ;  and  the  Patience  of  the  Saints — the  Rest  of  the  Sabbath 
Eternal.    (Rev.  xiv.  13.) 
Compare  also.  Chap.  I.  §  6. 


260 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


tion  of  all  that  is  base,  and  the  accepting  of  all  that  is  good 
and  great,  for  the  paths  of  wisdom  are  all  peace.  We  shall 
see  by  this  light  three  colossal  images  standing  up  side  by 
side,  looming  in  their  great  rest  of  spirituality  above  the 
whole  world  horizon,  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Dante  ; 
and  then,  separated  from  their  great  religious  thrones  only 
by  less  fulness  and  earnestness  of  Faith,  Homer,  and  Shaks- 
peare  ;  and  from  these  we  may  go  down  step  by  step  among 
the  mighty  men  of  every  age,  securely  and  certainly  observ- 
ant of  diminished  lustre  in  every  appearance  of  restlessness 
and  effort,  until  the  last  trace  of  true  inspiration  vanishes  in 
the  tottering  affectations  or  the  tortured  insanities  of  mod- 
ern times.  There  is  no  art,  no  pursuit,  whatsoever,  but  its 
results  may  be  classed  by  this  test  alone  ;  everything  of  evil 
is  betrayed  and  winnowed  away  by  it,  glitter  and  confusion 
and  glare  of  color,  inconsistency  or  absence  of  thought, 
forced  expression,  evil  choice  of  subject,  over  accumulation 
of  materials,  whether  in  painting  or  literature,  the  shallow 
affd  unreflecting  nothingness  of  the  English  schools  of  art, 
the  strained  and  disgusting  horrors  of  the  French,  the  dis- 
torted feverishness  of  the  German  : — pretence,  over  decora- 
tion, over  division  of  parts  in  architecture,  and  again  in  mu- 
sic, in  acting,  in  dancing,  in  whatsoever  art,  great  or  mean, 
there  are  yet  degrees  of  greatness  or  meanness  entirely  de- 
pendent on  this  single  quality  of  repose. 

Particular  instances  are  at  present  both  needless  and  can- 
not but  be  inadequate  ;  needless,  because  I  suppose  that 
every  reader,  however  limited  his  experience  of  art,  can 
§  6  Instances  in  ^^^PP^^  many  for  himself,  and  inadequate,  be- 
the  Laocoon  and  causc  uo  number  of  them  could  illustrate  the 

Q?lies6iis« 

full  extent  of  the  influence  of  the  expression.  I 
believe,  however,  that  by  comparing  the  disgusting  convul- 
sions of  the  Laocoon,  with  the  Elgin  Theseus,  we  may  obtain 
a  general  idea  of  the  effect  of  the  influence,  as  shown  by  its 
absence  in  one,  and  presence  in  the  other,  of  two  works 
which,  as  far  as  artistical  merit  is  concerned,  are  in  some 
measure  parallel,  not  that  I  believe,  even  in  this  respect,  the 
Laocoon  justifiably  comparable  with  the  Theseus.  I  suppose 


OF  REPOSE. 


261 


that  no  group  has  exercised  so  pernicious  an  influence  on  art 
as  this,  a  subject  ill  chosen,  meanly  conceived  and  un- 
naturally treated,  recommended  to  imitation  by  subtleties  of 
execution  and  accumulation  of  technical  knowledge.* 

*  I  would  also  have  the  reader  compare  with  the  meagre  lines  and 
contemptible  tortures  of  the  Laocoon,  tae  awfulness  and  quietness  of 
M.  Angelo's  treatment  of  a  subject  in  most  respects  similar,  (the  plague 
of  the  Fiery  Serpents,)  but  of  which  the  choice  was  justified  both  by 
the  place  which  the  event  holds  in  the  typical  system  he  had  to  arrange, 
and  by  the  grandeur  of  the  plague  itself,  in  its  multitudinous  grasp,  and 
its  mystical  salvation ;  sources  of  sublimity  entirely  wanting  to  the 
slaughter  of  the  Dardan  priest.  It  is  good  to  see  how  his  gigantic  in- 
tellect reaches  after  repose,  and  truthfully  finds  it,  in  the  falling  hand 
of  the  near  figure,  and  in  the  deathful  decline  of  that  whose  hands  are 
held  up  even  in  their  venom  coldness  to  the  cross ;  and  though  irrele- 
vant to  our  present  purpose,  it  is  well  also  to  note  how  the  grandeur  of 
this  treatment  results,  not  merely  from  choice,  but  from  a  greater 
knowledge  and  more  faithful  rendering  of  truth.  For  whatever  knowl- 
edge of  the  human  frame  there  may  be  in  the  Laocoon,  there  is  cer- 
tainly none  of  the  habits  of  serpents.  The  fixing  of  the  snake's  head 
in  the  side  of  the  principal  figure  is  as  false  to  nature,  as  it  is  poor  in 
composition  of  line.  A  large  serpent  never  wants  to  bite,  it  wants  to 
hold,  it  seizes  therefore  always  where  it  can  hold  best,  by  the  ex- 
tremities, or  throat,  it  seizes  once  and  forever,  and  that  before  it  coils, 
following  up  the  seizure  with  the  twist  of  its  body  round  the  victim,  as 
invisibly  swift  as  the  twist  of  a  whip  lash  round  any  hard  object  it  may 
strike,  and  then  it  holds  fast,  never  moving  the  jaws  or  the  body,  if  its 
prey  has  any  power  of  struggling  left,  it  throws  round  another  coil, 
without  quitting  the  hold  with  the  jaws  ;  if  Laocoon  had  had  to  do  with 
real  serpents,  instead  of  pieces  of  tape  with  heads  to  them,  he  would 
have  been  held  still,  and  not  allowed  to  throw  his  arms  or  legs  about. 
It  is  most  instructive  to  obsearve  the  accuracy  of  Michael  Angelo  in  the 
rendering  of  these  circumstances ;  the  binding  of  the  arms  to  the  body, 
and  the  knotting  of  the  whole  mass  of  agony  together,  until  we  hear 
the  crashing  of  the  bones  beneath  the  grisly  sliding  of  the  engine  folds. 
Note  also  the  expression  in  all  the  figures  of  another  circumstance, 
the  torpor  and  cold  numbness  of  the  limbs  induced  by  the  serpent 
venom,  which,  though  justifiably  overlooked  by  the  sculptor  of  the 
Laocoon,  as  well  as  by  Virgil — in  consideration  of  the  rapidity  of  the 
death  by  crushing,  adds  infinitely  to  the  power  of  the  Florentine's  con- 
ception, and  would  have  been  better  hinted  by  Virgil,  than  that 
sickening  distribution  of  venom  on  the  garlands.  In  fact,  Virgil  has 
missed  both  of  truth  and  impressiveness  everyway — the  ''morsu  de- 
pascitur"  is  unnatural  butchery — the  '^perlusus  veneno"  gratuitous 


262 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


In  Christian  art,  it  would  be  well  to  compare  the  feeling 
of  the  finer  among  the  altar  tombs  of  the  middle  ages,  with 
§7.  And  in  altar  ^^^7  monumental  works  after  Michael  Angelo, 
tombs.  perhaps  more  especially  with  works  of  Roubil^ 

liac  or  Canova. 

In  the  Cathedral  of  Lucca,  near  the  entrance  door  of  the 
north  transept,  there  is  a  monument  of  Jacopo  della  Quercia's 
to  Ilaria  di  Caretto,  the  wife  of  Paolo  Guinigi.  I  name  it 
not  as  more  beautiful  or  perfect  than  other  examples  of  the 
same  period,  but  as  furnishing  an  instance  of  the  exact  and 
right  mean  between  the  rigidity  and  rudeness  of  the  earlier 
monumental  effigies,  and  the  morbid  imitation  of  life,  sleep, 
or  death,  of  which  the  fashion  has  taken  place  in  modern 
times.*    She  is  lying  on  a  simple  couch,  with  a  hound  at  her 

foulness — the  *^clamores  horrendos,"  impossible  degradation;  com- 
pare carefully  the  remarks  on  this  statue  in  Sir  Charles  Bell's  Essay  on 
Expression,  (third  edition,  p.  192)  where  he  has  most  wisely  and  un- 
controvertibly  deprived  the  statue  of  all  claim  to  expression  of  energy 
and  fortitude  of  mind,  and  shown  its  common  and  coarse  intent  of  mere 
bodily  exertion  and  agony,  while  he  has  confirmed  Payne  Knight's  just 
condemnation  of  the  |  assage  in  Virgil. 

If  the  reader  wishes  to  see  the  opposite  or  imaginative  view  of  the 
subject,  let  him  compare  Winkelmann;  and  Schiller,  Letters  on 
Esthetic  Culture. 

*  Whenever,  in  monumental  work,  the  sculptor  reaches  a  deceptive 
appearance  of  life  or  death,  or  of  concomitant  details,  he  has  gone  too 
far.  The  statue  should  be  felt  for  such,  not  look  like  a  dead  or  sleep- 
ing body ;  it  should  not  convey  the  impression  of  a  corpse,  nor  of  sick 
and  outwearied  flesh,  but  it  should  be  the  marble  image  of  death  or 
weariness.  So  the  concomitants  should  be  distinctly  marble,  severe  and 
monumental  in  their  lines,  not  shroud,  not  bedclothes,  not  actual 
armor  nor  brocade,  not  a  real  soft  pillow,  not  a  downright  hard  stuffed 
mattress,  but  the  mere  type  and  suggestion  of  these  :  a  certain  rudeness 
and  incompletion  of  finish  is  very  noble  in  all.  Not  that  they  are  to  be 
unnatural,  such  lines  as  are  given  should  be  pure  and  true,  and  clear  of 
the  hardness  and  mannered  rigidity  of  the  strictly  Gothic  types,  but 
lines  so  few  and  grand  as  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  only,  and  always 
to  stop  short  of  realization.  There  is  a  monument  put  up  lately  by  a 
modern  Italian  sculptor  in  one  of  the  side  chapels  of  Santa  Croce,  the 
face  fine  and  the  execution  dexterous.  But  it  looks  as  if  the  per- 
son had  been  restless  all  night,  and  the  artist  admitted  to  a  faithful 
study  of  the  disturbed  bedclothes  in  the  morning. 


OF  SYMMETRY. 


263 


feet,  not  on  the  side,  but  with  the  head  laid  straight  and 
simply  on  the  hard  pillow,  in  which,  let  it  be  observed,  there 
is  no  effort  at  deceptive  imitation  of  pressure.  It  is  under- 
stood as  a  pillow,  but  not  mistaken  for  one.  The  hair  is 
bound  in  a  flat  braid  over  the  fair  brow,  the  sweet  and 
arched  eyes  are  closed,  the  tenderness  of  the  loving  lips  is  set 
and  quiet,  there  is  that  about  them  which  forbids  breath, 
something  which  is  not  death  nor  sleep,  but  the  pure  image 
of  both.  The  hands  are  not  lifted  in  prayer,  neither  folded, 
but  the  arms  are  laid  at  length  upon  the  body,  and  the  hands 
cross  as  they  fall.  The  feet  are  hidden  by  the  drapery,  and 
the  forms  of  the  limbs  concealed,  but  not  their  tenderness. 

If  any  of  us,  after  staying  for  a  time  beside  this  tomb, 
could  see  through  his  tears,  one  of  the  vain  and  unkind  en- 
cumbrances of  the  grave,  which,  in  these  hollow  and  heart- 
less days,  feigned  sorrow  builds  to  foolish  pride,  he  would,  I 
believe,  receive  such  a  lesson  of  love  as  no  coldness  could  re- 
fuse, no  fatuity  forget,  and  no  insolence  disobey. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OF  SYMMETRY,  OR  THE  TYPE  OF  DIVINE  JUSTICE. 

We  shall  not  be  long  detained  by  the  consideration  of  this, 
the  fourth  constituent  of  beauty,  as  its  nature  is  universally 
felt  and  understood.  In  all  perfectly  beautiful  objects,  there 
§  1.  Symmetry,  is  found  the  Opposition  of  one  part  to  another 
fou^d  fn  organic  ^  reciprocal  balance  obtained  ;  in  animals 
nature.  ^^iQ  balance  being  commonly  between  opposite 

sides,  (note  the  disagreeableness  occasioned  by  the  excep- 
tion in  flat  fish,  having  the  eyes  on  one  side  of  the  head,) 
but  in  vegetables  the  opposition  is  less  distinct,  as  in  the 
boughs  on  opposite  sides  of  trees,  and  the  leaves  and  sprays 
on  each  side  of  the  boughs,  and  in  dead  matter  less  perfect 
still,  often  amounting  only  to  a  certain  tendency  towards  a 
balance,  as  in  the  opposite  sides  of  valleys  and  alternate 
windings  of  streams.    In  things  in  which  perfect  symmetry 


264 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


is  from  their  nature  impossible  or  improper,  a  balance  must 
be  at  least  in  some  measure  expressed  before  they  can  be  be- 
held with  pleasure.  Hence  the  necessity  of  what  artists  re- 
§2,  Howneces-  q^ire  as  Opposing  lines  or  masses  in  composi- 
saryinart.  tion,  the  propriety  of  which,  as  well  as  their 
value,  depends  chiefly  on  their  inartificial  and  natural  inven- 
tion. Absolute  equality  is  not  required,  still  less  absolute 
similarity.  A  mass  of  subdued  color  may  be  balanced  by  a 
point  of  a  powerful  one,  and  a  long  and  latent  line  overpow- 
ered by  a  short  and  conspicuous  one.  The  only  error  against 
which  it  is  necessary  to  guard  the  reader  with  respect  to 
symmetry,  is  the  confounding  it  with  proportion,  though  it 
seems  strange  that  the  two  terms  could  ever  have  been  used 
as  synonymous.  Symmetry  is  the  opposition  of  equal  quan- 
tities to  each  other.  Proportion  the  connection  of  unequal 
quantities  with  each  other.  The  property  of  a  tree  in  send- 
ing out  equal  boughs  on  opposite  sides  is  symmetrical.  Its 
sending  out  shorter  and  smaller  towards  the  top,  propor- 
tional. In  the  human  face  its  balance  of  opposite  sides  is 
symmetry,  its  division  upwards,  proportion. 

Whether  the  agreeableness  of  symmetry  be  in  any  way  re- 
ferable to  its  expression  of  the  Aristotelian  Icrorrjs,  that  is  to 
say  of  abstract  justice,  I  leave  the  reader  to  determine  ;  I 
§3.  To  what  its  ^^^J  assert  respecting  it,  that  it  is  necessary  to 
Slwl!"  v'aii!  (dignity  of  every  form,  and  that  by  the  re- 
ous  instances.  moval  of  it  we  shall  render  the  other  elements  of 
beauty  comparatively  ineffectual :  though,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  to  be  observed  that  it  is  rather  a  mode  of  arrangement 
of  qualities  than  a  quality  itself  ;  and  hence  symmetry  has 
little  power  over  the  mind,  unless  all  the  other  constituents 
of  beauty  be  found  together  with  it.  A  form  may  be  sym- 
metrical and  ugly,  as  many  Elizabethan  ornaments,  and  yet 
not  so  ugly  as  it  had  been  if  unsymmetrical,  but  bettered  al- 
ways by  increasing  degrees  of  symmetry  ;  as  in  star  figures, 
wherein  there  is  a  circular  symmetry  of  many  like  members, 
whence  their  frequent  use  for  the  plan  and  ground  of  orna- 
mental designs  ;  so  also  it  is  observable  that  foliage  in  which 
the  leaves  are  concentrically  grouped,  as  in  the  chestnuts, 


OF  SYMMETRY. 


265 


and  many  shrubs — rhododendrons  for  instance — (whence  the 
perfect  beauty  of  the  Alpine  rose) — is  far  nobler  in  its  effect 
than  any  other,  so  that  the  sweet  chestnut  of  all  trees  most 
fondly  and  frequently  occurs  in  the  landscape  of  Tintoret  and 
Titian,  beside  which  all  other  landscape  grandeur  vanishes  : 
and  even  in  the  meanest  things  the  rule  holds,  as  in  the  kaleid- 
oscope, wherein  agreeableness  is  given  to  forms  altogether  ac- 
cidental merely  by  their  repetition  and  reciprocal  opposi- 
tion ;  which  orderly  balance  and  arrangement  are  essential 
to  the  perfect  operation  of  the  more  earnest  and  solemn  quali- 
ties of  the  beautiful,  as  being  heavenly  in  their  nature,  and 
contrary  to  the  violence  and  disorganization  of  sin,  so  that 
the  seeking  of  them  and  submission  to  them  is  always  marked 
in  minds  that  have  been  subjected  to  high  moral  discipline, 
constant  in  all  the  great  religious  painters,  to  the  degree  of 
being  an  offence  and  a  scorn  to  men  of  less  tuned  and  tran- 
quil feeling.  Equal  ranks  of  saints  are  placed  on  each  side 
§  4.  Especially  in  picture,  if  there  be  a  kneeling  figure  on 

religious  art.  side,  there  is  a  corresponding  one  on  the 

other,  the  attendant  angels  beneath  and  above  are  arranged 
in  like  order.  The  Raffaelle  at  Blenheim,  the  Madonna  di  St. 
Sisto,  the  St.  Cicilia,  and  all  the  works  of  Perugino,  Francia, 
and  John  Bellini  present  some  such  form,  and  the  balance  at 
least  is  preserved  even  in  pictures  of  action  necessitating 
variety  of  grouping,  as  always  by  Giotto  ;  and  by  Ghirlan- 
dajo  in  the  introduction  of  his  chorus-like  side  figures,  and  by 
Tintoret  most  eminently  in  his  noblest  work,  the  Crucifixion, 
where  not  only  the  grouping  but  the  arrangement  of  light  is 
absolutely  symmetrical.  Where  there  is  no  symmetry,  the 
effects  of  passion  and  violence  are  increased,  and  many  very 
sublime  pictures  derive  their  sublimity  from  the  want  of  it, 
but  they  lose  proportionally  in  the  diviner  quality  of  beauty. 
In  landscape  the  same  sense  of  symmetry  is  preserved,  as  we 
shall  presently  see,  even  to  artificialness,  by  the  greatest  men, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  principal  sources  of  deficient  feeling  in 
the  landscapes  of  the  present  day,  that  the  symmetry  of  nat- 
ure is  sacrificed  to  irregular  picturesqueness.  Of  this,  how- 
ever, hereafter. 


266 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OF  PURITY,  OR  THE  TYPE  OF  DIVINE  ENERGY. 

It  may  at  first  appear  strange  that  I  have  not  in  my  enu- 
meration of  the  types  of  Divine  attributes,  included  that 
which  is  certainly  the  most  visible  and  evident  of  fill,  as  v^ell 
§  1    The  influ  most  distinctly  expressed  in  Scripture  ; 

enceof  light  as  a  God  IS  lis^ht,  and  in  Him  is  no  darkness  at  all. 

sacred  symbol.  i«ni  i  n 

But  I  could  not  logically  class  the  presence  of 
an  actual  substance  or  motion  with  mere  conditions  and 
modes  of  being,  neither  could  I  logically  separate  from  any  of 
these,  that  which  is  evidently  necessary  to  the  perception 
of  all.  And  it  is  also  to  be  observed,  that  though  the  love 
of  light  is  more  instinctive  in  the  human  heart  than  any 
other  of  the  desires  connected  with  beauty,  we  can  hardly 
separate  its  agreeableness  in  its  own  nature  from  the  sense  of 
its  necessity  and  value  for  the  purposes  of  life,  neither  the 
abstract  painfulness  of  darkness  from  the  sense  of  danger 
and  incapacity  connected  with  it ;  and  note  also  that  it  is 
not  all  light,  but  light  possessing  the  universal  qualities  of 
beauty,  diffused  or  infinite  rather  than  in  points,  tranquil,  not 
startling  and  variable,  pure,  not  sullied  or  oppressed,  which 
is  indeed  pleasant  and  perfectly  typical  of  the  Divine  nature. 

Observe,  however,  that  there  is  one  quality,  the  idea  of 
which  had  been  just  introduced  in  connection  with  light, 
which  might  have  escaped  us  in  the  consideration  of  mere 
§2  Theideaof  "^^^^^^5  namely  purity,  and  yet  I  think  that  the 
purity  connected  original  notion  of  this  quality  is  altoarether  ma- 

withit.  ?  ,  ^    ,  1      ,  .1         1  1 

teriai,  and  has  only  been  attributed  to  color 
when  such  color  is  suggestive  of  the  condition  of  matter  from 
which  we  originally  received  the  idea.  For  I  see  not  in  the 
abstract  how  one  color  should  be  considered  purer  than  an- 
other, except  as  more  or  less  compounded,  whereas  there  is 
certainly  a  sense  of  purity  or  impurity  in  the  most  compound 
and  neutral  colors,  as  well  as  in  the  sim^Dlest,  a  quality  diffi- 


OF  PURITY. 


267 


cult  to  define,  and  which  the  reader  will  probably  be  sur- 
prised by  my  calling  the  type  of  energy,  with  which  it  has 
certainly  little  traceable  connection  in  the  mind. 

I  believe,  however,  if  we  carefully  analyze  the  nature  of 
our  ideas  of  impurity  in  general,  we  shall  find  them  refer  es- 
pecially to  conditions  of  matter  in  which  its  various  elements 
§  3.  Originally  are  placed  in  a  relation  incapable  of  healthy  or 
ditio'^n^^Pmat"  Proper  operation  ;  and  most  distinctly  to  con- 

ditions  in  which  the  negation  of  vital  or  ener- 
getic action  is  most  evident,  as  in  corruption  and  decay  of 
all  kinds,  wherein  particles  which  once,  by  their  operation 
on  each  other,  produced  a  living  and  energetic  whole,  are 
reduced  to  a  condition  of  perfect  passiveness,  in  which  they 
are  seized  upon  and  appropriated,  one  by  one,  piecemeal,  by 
whatever  has  need  of  them,  without  any  power  of  resistance 
or  energy  of  their  own.  And  thus  there  is  a  peculiar  pain- 
fulness  attached  to  any  associations  of  inorganic  with  organic 
matter,  such  as  appear  to  involve  the  inactivity  and  feeble- 
ness of  the  latter,  so  that  things  which  are  not  felt  to  be  foul 
in  their  own  nature,  yet  become  so  in  association  with  things 
of  greater  inherent  energy  ;  as  dust  or  earth,  which  in  a 
mass  excites  no  painful  sensation,  excites  a  most  disagreeable 
one  when  strewing  or  staining  an  animal's  skin,  because  it 
implies  a  decline  and  deadening  of  the  vital  and  healthy 
§  4.  Associated  powcr  of  the  skiu.  But  all  reasoning  aV^out  this 
thTpowtr'^f  the  impression  is  rendered  difficult,  by  the  host  of 
fluence^  of 'clear-  ^ssociated  idcas  Connected  with  it  ;  for  the  ocu- 

lar  sense  of  impurity  connected  with  corruption  is 
infinitely  enhanced  by  the  offending  of  other  senses  and  by 
the  grief  and  horror  of  it  in  its  own  nature,  as  the  special 
punishment  and  evidence  of  sin,  and  on  the  other  hand,  the 
ocular  delight  in  purity  is  mingled,  as  I  before  observed, 
with  the  love  of  the  mere  element  of  light,  as  a  type  of  wis- 
dom and  of  truth  ;  whence  it  seems  to  me  that  we  admire  the 
transparency  of  bodies,  though  probably  it  is  still  rather  owing 
to  our  sense  of  more  perfect  order  and  arrangement  of  par- 
ticles, and  not  to  our  love  of  light,  that  we  look  upon  a  piece 
of  rock  crystal  as  purer  than  a  piece  of  marble,  and  on  the 


268 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


marble  as  purer  than  a  piece  of  chalk.  And  let  it  be  ob- 
served also  that  the  most  lovely  objects  in  nature  are  only 
partially  transparent.  I  suppose  the  utmost  possible  sense 
of  beauty  is  conveyed  by  a  feebly  translucent,  smooth,  but 
not  lustrous  surface  of  white,  and  pale  warm  red,  subdued 
§5.  Perfect  by  the  most  pure  and  delicate  grays,  as  in  the 

beauty  ofsur-r!  j.'  £  j.\       \.  £  •  j.\ 

face,  in  what  nner  portions  oi  the  human  irame  ;  in  wreaths 
consisting.  snow,  and  in  white  plumage  under  rose  light,* 

so  Viola  of  Olivia  in  Twelfth  Night,  and  Homer  of  Atrides 
wounded. f  And  I  think  that  transparency  and  lustre,  both 
beautiful  in  themselves,  are  incompatible  with  the  highest 
beauty  because  they  destroy  form,  on  the  full  perception  of 
which  more  of  the  divinely  character  of  the  object  depends 
than  upon  its  color.  Hence,  in  the  beauty  of  snow  and  of 
flesh,  so  much  translucency  is  allowed  as  is  consistent  with 

*  The  reader  will  observe  that  I  am  speaking  at  present  of  mere  ma- 
terial qualities.  If  he  would  obtain  perfect  ideas  respecting  loveliness 
of  luminous  surface,  let  him  closely  observe  a  swan  with  its  wings  ex- 
panded in  full  light  five  minutes  before  sunset.  The  human  cheek  or 
the  rose  leaf  are  perhaps  hardly  so  pure,  and  the  forms  of  snow,  though 
individually  as  beautiful,  are  less  exquisitely  combined. 

f  obs  5'  ore  ris  r  i\€(J)avTa  yvvrj  (polyiKi  fiLrjvri 

So  Spenser  of  Shamefacedness,  an  exquisite  piece  of  glowing  color — 
and  sweetly  of  Belphoebe — (so  the  roses  and  lilies  of  all  poets.)  Compare 
the  making  of  the  image  of  Florimell. 

''The  substance  whereof  she  the  body  made 
Was  purest  snow,  in  massy  mould  congealed, 
Which  she  had  gathered  in  a  shady  glade 
Of  the  Riphoean  hills. 
The  same  she  tempered  with  fine  mercury. 
And  mingled  them  with  perfect  vermily." 
With  Una  he  perhaps  overdoes  the  white  a  little.    She  is  two  degrees 
of  comparison  above  snow.    Compare  his  questioning  in  the  Hymn  to 
Beauty,  about  that  mixture  made  of  colors  fair  ;  and  goodly  tempera- 
ment, of  pure  complexion . 

Hath  white  and  red  in  it  such  wondrous  power 
That  it  can  pierce  through  the  eyes  into  the  heart  ?  " 

Where  the  distinction  between  typical  and  vital  beauty  is  very  glori- 
ously carried  out. 


OF  PURITY. 


269 


the  full  explanation  of  the  forms,  while  we  are  suffered  to  re- 
ceive more  intense  impressions  of  light  and  transparency  from 
other  objects  which,  nevertheless,  owing  to  their  necessarily 
unperceived  form,  are  not  perfectly  nor  affectingly  beautiful. 
A  fair  forehead  outshines  its  diamond  diadem.  The  sparkle 
of  the  cascade  withdraws  not  our  eyes  from  the  snowy  sum- 
mits in  their  evening  silence. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  many  readers  that  I  have  not 
spoken  of  purity  in  that  sense  in  which  it  is  most  frequently 
used,  as  a  type  of  sinlessness.  I  do  not  deny  that  the  fre- 
§  6.  Purity  only  qucut  metaphorical  use  of  it  in  Scripture  may 
type^^o^^'^dni^^s^  have  and  ought  to  have  much  influence  on  the 
sympathies  with  which  we  regard  it,  and  that 
probably  the  immediate  agreeableness  of  it  to  most  minds 
arises  far  more  from  this  source  than  from  that  to  which  I 
have  chosen  to  attribute  it.  But,  in  the  first  place,  if  it  be 
indeed  in  the  signs  of  Divine  and  not  of  human  attributes 
that  beauty  consists,  I  see  not  how  the  idea  of  sin  can  be 
formed  with  respect  to  the  Deity,  for  it  is  an  idea  of  a  rela- 
tion borne  by  us  to  Him,  and  not  in  any  way  to  be  attached 
to  his  abstract  nature.  And  if  the  idea  of  sin  is  incapable 
of  being  formed  with  respect  to  Him,  so  also  is  its  negative, 
for  we  cannot  form  an  idea  of  negation,  where  we  cannot 
form  an  idea  of  presence.  If  for  instance  one  could  con- 
ceive of  taste  or  flavor  in  a  proposition  of  Euclid,  so  also 
might  we  of  insipidity,  but  if  not  of  the  one,  then  not  of 
the  other.  So  that,  in  speaking  of  the  goodness  of  God,  it 
cannot  be  tha^t  we  mean  anything  more  than  his  Love,  Mer- 
cifulness, and  Justice,  and  these  attributes  I  have  shown  to 
be  expressed  by  other  qualities  of  beauty,  and  I  cannot  trace 
any  rational  connection  between  them  and  the  idea  of  spot- 
lessness  in  matter.  Neither  can  I  trace  any  more  distinct  re- 
lation between  this  idea,  and  any  of  the  virtues  which  make 
up  the  righteousness  of  man,  except  perhaps  those  of  truth 
and  openness,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  as  more  ex- 
pressed by  the  transparency  than  the  mere  purity  of  mat- 
ter. So  that  I  conceive  the  whole  use  of  the  terms  purity, 
spotlessness,  etc.,  in  moral  subjects,  to  be  merely  metaphori- 


270 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


cal,  and  that  it  is  rather  that  we  illustrate  these  virtues  by 
the  desirableness  of  material  purity,  than  that  we  desire  ma- 
terial purity  because  it  is  illustrative  of  these  virtues. 

I  repeat,  then,  that  the  only  idea  which  I  think  can  be  le- 
gitimately connected  with  purity  of  matter,  is  this  of  vital 
and  energetic  connection  among  its  particles,  and  that  the 
idea  of  foulness  is  essentially  connected  with  dissolution  and 
death.  Thus  the  purity  of  the  rock,  contrasted  with  the 
§  7  Energy  how  ^^ulness  of  dust  or  mould,  is  expressed  by  the 
expressed  by  pu-  epithet  "  livinsT,"  verv  sinorularly  sfiven  in  the 

rity  of  matter.         ^         ^  ^^  ^  .         i  i 

rock,  in  almost  all  languages  ;  singularly  I  say, 
because  life  is  almost  the  last  attribute  one  would  ascribe  to 
stone,  but  for  this  visible  energy,  and  connection  of  its  parti- 
cles :  and  so  of  water  as  opposed  to  stagnancy.  And  I  do  not 
think  that,  however  pure  a  powder  or  dust  may  be,  the  idea 
of  beauty  is  ever  connected  with  it,  for  it  is  not  the  mere 
purity,  but  the  active  condition  of  the  substance  which  is  de- 
sired, so  that  as  soon  as  it  shoots  into  crystals,  or  gathers 
into  efflorescence,  a  sensation  of  active  or  real  purity  is  re- 
ceived which  was  not  felt  in  the  calcined  caput  mortuum. 

And  again  in  color.  I  imagine  that  the  quality  of  it  which 
we  term  purity  is  dependent  on  the  full  energizing  of  the 
rays  that  compose  it,  whereof  if  in  compound  hues  any  are 
overpowered  and  killed  by  the  rest,  so  as  to 

§  8.  And  of  color.    ,        \  ,  ^     ^  '  ^X. 

be  oi  no  value  nor  operation,  loulness  is  the 
consequence  ;  while  so  long  as  all  act  together,  whether  side 
by  side,  or  from  pigments  seen  one  through  the  other,  so 
that  all  the  coloring  matter  employed  comes  into  play  in  the 
harmony  desired,  and  none  be  quenched  nor  killed,  purity 
results.  And  so  in  all  cases  I  suppose  that  pureness  is  made 
to  us  desirable,  because  expressive  of  the  constant  presence 
and  energizing  of  the  Deity  in  matter,  through  which  all 
things  live  and  move,  and  have  their  being,  and  that  foulness  is 
painful  as  the  accompaniment  of  disorder  and  decay,  and  al- 
ways indicative  of  the  withdrawal  of  Divine  support.  And 
the  practical  analogies  of  life,  the  invariable  connection  of 
outward  foulness  with  mental  sloth  and  degradation,  as  well 
as  with  bodily  lethargy  and  disease,  together  with  the  con- 


OF  MODERATION. 


271 


trary  indications  of  freshness  and  purity  belonging  to  every 
healthy  and  active  organic  frame,  (singularl}'^  seen  in  the 
effort  of  the  young  leaves  when  first  their  inward  energy 
prevails  over  the  earth,  pierces  its  corruption,  and  shakes 
its  dust  away  from  their  own  white  purity  of  life,)  all 
these  circumstances  strengthen  the  instinct  by  associations 
countless  and  irresistible.  And  then,  finally,  with  the  idea 
§9.  Spirituality,  of  puHty  comcs  that  of  Spirituality,  for  the  es- 
how  so  expressed,  g^j^^-g^i  characteristic  of  matter  is  its  inertia, 
whence,  by  adding  to  its  purity  or  energy,  we  may  in  some 
measure  spiritualize  even  matter  itself.  Thus  in  the  descrip- 
tions of  the  Apocalypse  it  is  its  purity  that  fits  it  for  its 
place  in  heaven  ;  the  river  of  the  water  of  life,  that  proceeds 
out  of  the  throne  of  the  Lamb,  is  clear  as  crystal,  and  the 
pavement  of  the  city  is  pure  gold,  like  unto  clear  glass.* 


CHAPTER  X. 

OF  MODERATIOlSr,  OR  THE  TYPE  OF  GOVERISTMENT  BY  LAW. 

Of  objects  which,  in  respect  of  the  qualities  hitherto  con- 
sidered, appear  to  have  equal  claims  to  regard,  we  find,  never- 
theless, that  certain  are  preferred  to  others  in  consequence 

*  I  have  not  spoken  here  of  any  of  the  associations  connected  with 
warmth  or  coolness  of  color,  they  are  partly  connected  with  vital  beauty, 
compare  Chap.  xiv.  §  22,  23,  and  partly  with  impressions  of  the  sub- 
lime, the  discussion  of  which  is  foreign  to  the  present  subject;  purity, 
however,  it  is  which  gives  value  to  both,  for  neither  warm  nor  cool 
color,  can  be  beautiful,  if  impure. 

Neither  have  I  spoken  of  any  questions  relating  to  melodies  of  color, 
a  subject  of  separate  science— whose  general  principle  lias  been  already 
stated  in  the  seventh  chapter  respecting  unity  of  sequence.  Those  qual- 
ities only  are  here  noted  which  give  absolute  beauty,  whether  to  sepa- 
rate color  or  to  melodies  of  it — for  all  melodies  are  not  beautiful,  but 
only  those  which  are  expressive  of  certain  pleasant  or  solemn  emotions  ; 
and  the  rest  startling,  or  curious,  or  cheerful,  or  exciting,  or  sublime, 
but  not  beautiful,  (and  so  in  music.)  And  all  questions  relating  to  this 
grandeur,  cheerfulnes«,  or  other  characteristic  impression  of  color  must 
be  considered  under  the  head  of  ideas  of  relation. 


272 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY, 


of  an  attractive  power,  usually  expressed  by  the  terms 
"chastenesSj  refinement,  or  elegance,"  and  it  appears  also 
§  1.  Meaning  of  that  things  which  in  other  respects  have  little 
ness^^an^^  Refin^^^      them  of  natural  beauty,  and  are  of  forms  al- 

together  simple  and  adapted  to  simple  uses,  are 
capable  of  much  distinction  and  desirableness  in  consequence 
of  these  qualities  only.  It  is  of  importance  to  discover  the 
real  nature  of  the  ideas  thus  expressed. 

Something  of  the  peculiar  meaning  of  the  words  is  refer- 
able to  the  authority  of  fashion  and  the  exclusiveness  of 
pride,  owing  to  which  that  which  is  the  mode  of  a  particular 

time  is  submissively  esteemed,  and  that  which 

§  2.  How  refer-  .  i  -      *      „  t  m  i 

able  to  tempo-  by  its  costlincss  or  its  rarity  is  of  difficult  attam- 

rary  fashions,  ^  .  .     i         i  i 

ment,  or  in  any  way  appears  to  have  been  chosen 
as  the  best  of  many  things,  (which  is  the  original  sense  of 
the  words  elegant  and  exquisite,)  is  esteemed  for  the  witness 
it  bears  to  the  dignity  of  the  chooser. 

But  neither  of  these  ideas  are  in  any  way  connected  with 
eternal  beauty,  neither  do  they  at  all  account  for  that  agree- 
ableness  of  color  and  form  which  is  especially  termed  chaste- 
ness,  and  which  it  would  seem  to  be  a  characteristic  of  rightly 
trained  mind  in  all  things  to  prefer,  and  of  common  minds  to 
reject. 

There  is  however  another  character  of  artificial  produc- 
tions, to  which  these  terms  have  partial  reference,  which  it  is 
of  some  importance  to  note,  that  of  finish,  exactness,  or  re- 
finement, which  are  commonly  desired  in  the 

§3.  How  to  the  ,        „  •        i      i  i    •     i-rr-      i  /. 

perception    of  works  of  men,  owing  both  to  their  difficulty  of 

completion.  t  ^  .  i  .  .  • 

accomplishment  and  consequent  expression  or 
care  and  power  (compare  Chapter  on  Ideas  of  Power,  Part  I. 
Sect,  i.,)  and  from  their  greater  resemblance  to  the  working 
of  God,  whose  absolute  exactness,"  says  Hooker,  all  things 
imitate,  by  tending  to  that  which  is  most  exquisite  in  every 
particular."  And  there  is  not  a  greater  sign  of  the  imper- 
fection of  general  taste,  than  its  capability  of  contentment 
with  forms  and  things  which,  professing  completion,  are  yet 
not  exact  nor  complete,  as  in  the  vulgar  with  wax  and  clay 
and  china  figures,  and  in  bad  sculptors  with  an  unfinished 


OF  MODERATION. 


273 


and  clay-like  modelling  of  surface,  and  curves  and  angles  of 
no  precision  or  delicacy  ;  and  in  general,  in  all  common  and 
unthinking  persons  with  an  imperfect  rendering  of  that  which 
might  be  pure  and  fine,  as  church-wardens  are  content  to  lose 
the  sharp  lines  of  stone  carving  under  clogging  obliterations 
of  w^hitewash,  and  as  the  modern  Italians  scrape  away  and 
polish  white  all  the  sharpness  and  glory  of  the  carvings  on 
their  old  churches,  as  most  miserably  and  pitifully  on  St. 
4  F'  /  h  b    -'^^^^'^      Venice,  and  the  Baj)tisteries  of  Pis- 

grekt  masters  es-  toja  and  Pisa,  and  many  others  ;  so  also  the  de- 
teemed  essential.     T     T  /,  1  .     ,  •  11  , 

light  of  vulgar  painters  in  coarse  and  slurred 
painting,  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  coarseness,*  as  of  Spagno- 

*  It  is  to  be  carefully  noted  that  when  rude  execution  is  evidently  not 
the  result  of  imperfect  feeling  and  desire  (as  in  these  men  above  named, 
it  is)  but  of  thought  ;  either  impatient,  which  there  was  necessity  to 
note  swiftly,  or  impetuous,  which  it  was  well  to  note  in  mighty  man- 
ner, as  pre-eminently  and  in  both  kinds  the  case  with  Tintoret,  and 
often  with  Michael  Angelo,  and  in  lower  and  more  degraded  modes  with 
Rubens,  and  generally  in  the  sketches  and  first  thoughts  of  great  mas- 
ters ;  there  is  received  a  very  noble  pleasure,  connected  both  with  ideas 
of  power  (compare  again  Part  I.  Sect.  ii.  Chap.  I.)  and  with  certain  ac- 
tions of  the  imagination  of  which  we  shall  speak  presently.  But  this 
pleasure  is  not  received  from  the  beauty  of  the  work,  for  nothing  can 
be  perfectly  beautiful  unless  complete,  but  from  its  simplicity  and  suf- 
ficiency to  its  immediate  purpose,  where  the  purpose  is  not  of  beauty  at 
all,  as  often  in  things  rough-hewn,  pre-eminently  for  instance  in  the 
stones  of  the  foundations  of  the  Pitti  and  Strozzi  palaces,  whose  noble 
rudeness  is  to  be  opposed  both  to  the  useless  polish,  and  the  barbarous 
rustications  of  modem  times,  (although  indeed  this  instance  is  not  with- 
out exception  to  be  received,  for  the  majesty  of  these  rocky  buildings 
depends  also  in  some  measure  upon  the  real  beauty  and  finish  of  the 
natural  curvilinear  fractures,  opposed  to  the  coarseness  of  human  chis- 
elling,) and  again,  as  it  respects  works  of  higher  art,  the  pleasure  of  their 
hasty  or  imperfect  execution  is  not  indicative  of  their  beauty,  but  of 
their  majesty  and  fulness  of  thought  and  vastness  of  power.  Shade  is 
only  beautiful  when  it  magnifies  and  sets  forth  the  forms  of  fair  things, 
so  negligence  is  only  noble  when  it  is,  as  Fuseli  hath  it,  the  shadow 
of  energy."  Which  that  it  may  be,  secure  the  substance  and  the  shade 
will  follow,  but  let  the  artist  beware  of  stealing  the  manner  of  giant  in- 
tellects when  he  has  not  their  intention,  and  of  assuming  large  modes  of 
treatment  when  he  has  little  thoughts  to  treat.  There  is  large  differ- 
ence between  indolent  impatience  of  labor  and  intellectual  impatience 
Vol.  II.— 18 


274  OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 

letto,  Salvator,  or  Murillo,  opposed  to  the  divine  finish  which 
the  greatest  and  mightiest  of  men  disdained  not,  but  rather 
wrought  out  with  painfulness  and  life  spending  ;  as  Leon- 
ardo and  Michael  Angelo,  (for  the  latter,  however  many 
things  he  left  unfinished,  did  finish,  if  at  all,  with  a  refine- 
ment that  the  eye  cannot  follow,  but  the  feeling  only,  as  in 
the  Pieta  of  Genoa,)  and  Perugino  always,  even  to, the  gild- 
ing of  single  hairs  among  his  angel  tresses,  and  the  young 
Raffaelle,  when  he  was  heaven  taught,  and  Angelico,  and 
Pinturicchio,  and  John  Bellini,  and  all  other  such  serious  and 
loving  men.  Only  it  is  to  be  observed  that  this  finish  is  not 
a  part  or  constituent  of  beauty,  but  the  full  and  ultimate 
rendering  of  it,  so  that  it  is  an  idea  only  connected  with 
the  works  of  men,  for  all  the  works  of  the  Deity  are  finished 
with  the  same,  that  is,  infinite  care  and  completion  :  and  so 
what  degrees  of  beauty  exist  among  them  can  in  no  way  be 
dependent  upon  this  source,  inasmuch  as  there  are  between 
them  no  degrees  of  care.  And  therefore,  as  there  certainly 
is  admitted  a  difference  of  degree  in  what  we  call  chasteness, 
even  in  Divine  work,  (compare  the  hollyhock  or  the  sun- 
flower with  the  vale  lily,)  we  must  seek  for  it  some  other  ex- 
planation and  source  than  this. 

And  if,  bringing  down  our  ideas  of  it  from  complicated 
objects  to  simple  lines  and  colors,  we  analyze  and  regard  them 
carefully,  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  trace  them  to  an  under- 
current of  constantly  asrreeable  feelinsf,  excited 

^  5   liXoclGr&tioii  o 

its  nature  aud  by  the  appearance  in  material  things  of  a  self- 
^^^"®*  restrained  liberty,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  image 

of  that  acting  of  God  with  regard  to  all  his  creation,  where- 
of delay,  large  difference  between  leaving  things  unfinished  because  we 
have  more  to  do,  or  because  we  are  satisfied  with  what  we  have  done. 
Tintoret,  who  prayed  hard,  and  hardly  obtained,  that  he  might  be  per- 
mitted, the  charge  of  his  colors  only  being  borne,  to  paint  a  new  built 
house  from  base  to  battlement,  was  not  one  to  shun  labor,  it  is  the 
pouring  in  upon  him  of  glorious  thoughts  in  inexpressible  multitude 
that  his  sweeping  hand  follows  so  fast.  It  is  as  easy  to  know  the  slight- 
ness  of  earnest  haste  from  the  slightness  of  blunt  feeling,  indolence, 
or  affectation,  as  it  is  to  know  the  dust  of  a  race,  from  the  dust  of  dis- 
solution. 


OF  MODERATION. 


275 


in,  though  free  to  operate  in  whatever  arbitrary,  sudden, 
violent,  or  inconstant  ways  he  will,  he  yet,  if  we  may  rever- 
ently so  speak,  restrains  in  himself  this  his  omnipotent  liberty, 
and  works  always  in  consistent  modes,  called  by  us  laws. 
And  this  restraint  or  moderation,  according  to  the  words  of 
Hooker,  ("  that  which  doth  moderate  the  force  and  power, 
that  which  doth  appoint  the  form  and  measure  of  working, 
the  same  we  term  a  law,")  is  in  the  Deity  not  restraint,  such 
as  it  is  said  of  creatures,  but,  as  again  says  Hooker,  the 
very  being  of  God  is  a  law  to  his  working,"  so  that  every 
appearance  of  painfulness  or  want  of  power  and  freedom  in 
material  things  is  wrong  and  ugly  ;  for  the  right  restraint, 
the  image  of  Divine  operation,  is  both  in  them,  and  in  men, 
a  willing  and  not  painful  stopping  short  of  the  utmost  degree 
to  which  their  power  might  reach,  and  the  appearance  of  fet- 
tering or  confinement  is  the  cause  of  ugliness  in  the  one,  as 
the  slightest  painfulness  or  effort  in  restraint  is  a  sign  of  sin 
in  the  other. 

I  have  put  this  attribute  of  beauty  last,  because  I  consider 
it  the  girdle  and  safeguard  of  all  the  rest,  and  in  this  respect 
the  most  essential  of  all,  for  it  is  possible  that  a  certain  de- 
§  6.  It  is  the  gir-  g^^®  bcauty  may  be  attained  even  in  the  ab- 
die  of  beauty.  sence  of  One  of  its  other  constituents,  as  some- 
times in  some  measure  without  symmetry  or  without  unity. 
But  the  least  appearance  of  violence  or  extravagance,  of  the 
want  of  moderation  and  restraint,  is,  I  think,  destructive  of 
all  beauty  whatsoever  in  everything,  color,  form,  motion, 
language,  or  thought,  giving  rise  to  that  which  in  color  we 
call  glaring,  in  form  inelegant,  in  motion  ungraceful,  in  lan- 
guage coarse,  in  thought  undisciplined,  in  all  unchastened  ; 
which  qualities  are  in  everything  most  painful,  because  the 
sis^ns  of  disobedient  and  irregular  operation. 

§  7.  How  found  in.^^,        .  .  ^  ^ 

natural  curves  And  herein  we  at  last  nnd  the  reason  of  that 
and  colors.  which  has  been  so  often  noted  respecting  the  sub- 

tilty  and  almost  invisibility  of  natural  curves  and  colors,  and 
why  it  is  that  we  look  on  those  lines  as  least  beautiful  which 
fall  into  wide  and  far  license  of  curvature,  and  as  most  beau- 
tiful which  approach  nearest  (so  that  the  curvilinear  character 


276 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


be  distinctly  asserted)  to  the  government  of  the  right  line, 
as  in  the  pure  and  severe  curves  of  the  draperies  of  the  relig- 
ious painters  ;  and  thus  in  color  it  is  not  red,  but  rose-color 
Avhich  is  most  beautiful,  neither  such  actual  green  as  we  find 
in  summer  foliage  partly,  and  in  our  painting  of  it  constantly  ; 
but  such  gray  green  as  that  into  which  nature  modifies  her 
distant  tints,  or  such  pale  green  and  uncertain  as  we  see  in 
sunset  sky,  and  in  the  clefts  of  the  glacier  and  the  chryso- 
prase,  and  the  sea-foam  ;  and  so  of  all  colors,  not  that  they 
may  not  sometimes  be  deep  and  full,  but  that  there  is  a  sol- 
emn moderation  even  in  their  very  fulness,  and  a  holy  refer- 
ence beyond  and  out  of  their  own  nature  to  great  harmonies 
by  which  they  are  governed,  and  in  obedience  to  which  is 
their  glory.  Whereof  the  ignorance  is  shown  in  all  evil  col- 
orists  by  the  violence  and  positiveness  of  their  hues,  and  by 
dulness  and  discordance  consequent,  for  the  very  brilliancy 
and  real  jDower  of  all  color  is  dependent  on  the  chastening  of 
it,  as  of  a  voice  on  its  gentleness,  and  as  of  action  on  its 
§  8.  How  difficult  calmness,  and  as  all  moral  vigor  on  self-com- 
of  attainment,  yet  ^land.    And  therefore  as  that  virtue  which  men 

essential  to  all 

f^ood.  last,  and  with  most  difficulty  attain  unto,  and 

which  many  attain  not  at  all,  and  yet  that  which  is  essential 
to  the  conduct  and  almost  to  the  being  of  all  other  virtues, 
since  neither  imagination,  nor  invention,  nor  industry,  nor 
sensibility,  nor  energy,  nor  any  other  good  having,  is  of  full 
avail  without  this  of  self-command,  whereby  works  truly  mas- 
culine and  mighty  are  produced,  and  by  the  signs  of  which 
they  are  separated  from  that  lower  host  of  things  brilliant, 
magnificent  and  redundant,  and  farther  yet  from  that  of  the 
loose,  the  lawless,  the  exaggerated,  the  insolent,  and  the  pro- 
fane, I  would  have  the  necessity  of  it  foremost  among  all  our 
inculcating,  and  the  name  of  it  largest  among  all  our  inscrib- 
ing, in  so  far  that,  over  the  doors  of  every  school  of  Art,  I 
would  have  this  one  word,  relieved  out  in  deep  letters  of  pure 
gold, — Moderation. 


GENERAL  INFERENCES. 


277 


CHAPTER  XL 

GENERAL  INFERENCES  RESPECTING  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 

I  HAVE  now  enumerated,  and  in  some  measure  explained 
those  characteristics  of  mere  matter  by  which  I  conceive  it 
becomes  agreeable  to  the  theoretic  faculty,  under  whatever 
form,  dead,  organized,  or  animated,  it  may  pre- 

§  1.    The   sub-  •      i/»     t       -n  i  i    •      i  t 

ject  incompletely  sent  itscli.  It  Will  be  our  tasK  in  the  succeeding 
mitting  o?*^gen-  volumc  to  examine,  and  illustrate  by  examples, 
eral  conclusions,  ^j^^  mode  in  which  these  characteristics  appear 
in  every  division  of  creation,  in  stones,  mountains,  waves, 
clouds,  and  all  organic  bodies  ;  beginning  with  vegetables, 
and  then  taking  instances  in  the  range  of  animals  from  the 
mollusc  to  man  ;  examining  how  one  animal  form  is  nobler 
than  another,  by  the  more  mai^i|est  presence  of  these  attri- 
butes, and  chiefly  endeavoring  to  show  how  much  there  is  of 
admirable  and  lovely,  even  in  what  is  commonly  despised. 
At  present  I  have  only  to  mark  the  conclusions  at  which  we 
have  as  yet  arrived  respecting  the  rank  of  the  theoretic  fac- 
ulty, and  then  to  pursue  the  inquiry  farther  into  the  nature 
of  vital  beauty. 

As  I  before  said,  I  pretend  not  to  have  enumerated  all  the 
sources  of  material  beauty,  nor  the  analogies  connected  with 
them  ;  it  is  probable  that  others  may  occur  to  many  readers, 
or  to  myself  as  I  proceed  into  more  particular  inquiry,  but  I 
am  not  careful  to  collect  all  conceivable  evidence  on  the  sub- 
ject. I  desire  only  to  assert  and  prove  some  certain  princi- 
ples, and  by  means  of  these  to  show,  in  some  measure,  the 
inherent  worthiness  and  glory  of  God's  works  and  something 
of  the  relations  they  bear  to  each  other  and  to  us,  leaving  the 
subject  to  be  fully  pursued,  as  it  only  can  be,  by  the  ardor 
and  affection  of  those  whom  it  may  interest. 

The  qualities  above  enumerated  are  not  to  be  considered  as 
stamped  upon  matter  for  our  teachinsr  or  enioy- 

§2.  Typical  beau-  /      i      i  ^i  i? 

tynot  created  for  ment  Only,  but  as  the  necessary  consequence  or 
mans&ace.        ^j^^  perfection  of  God's  working,  and  the  inevi- 


278 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


table  stamp  of  his  image  on  what  he  creates.    For  it  would 

be  inconsistent  with  his  Infinite  perfection  to  work  imperfectly 
in  any  place,  or  in  any  matter ;  wherefore  we  do  not  find  that 
flowers  and  fair  trees,  and  kindly  skies,  are  given  only  where 
man  may  see  them  and  be  fed  by  them,  but  the  Spirit  of  God 
works  everywhere  alike,  where  there  is  no  eye  to  see,  cover- 
ing all  lonely  places  with  an  equal  glory,  using  the  same  pen- 
cil and  outpouring  the  same  splendor,  in  the  caves  of  the  waters 
where  the  sea-snakes  swim,  and  in  the  desert  where  the  satyrs 
dance,  among  the  fir-trees  of  the  stork,  and  the  rocks  of  the 
conies,  as  among  those  higher  creatures  whom 

§3.  But  degrees   ,      ,  ,  ui         'i.  £  V.'  i  • 

of  it  for  his  sake  he  has  made  capable  witnesses  oi  his  working, 
admitted.  Nevertheless,  I  think  that  the  admission  of  differ- 

ent degrees  of  this  glory  and  image  of  himself  upon  creation, 
has  the  look  of  something  meant  especially  for  us  ;  for  al- 
though, in  pursuance  of  the  appointed  system  of  government 
by  universal  laws,  these  sa'rt%  degrees  exist  where  we  cannot 
witness  them,  yet  the  existence  of  degrees  at  all  seems  at  first 
unlikely  in  Divine  work,  and  I  cannot  see  reason  for  it  unless 
that  palpable  one  of  increasing  in  us  the  understanding  gf 
the  sacred  characters  by  showing  us  the  results  of  their  com- 
parative absence.  For  I  know  not  that  if  all  things  had  been 
equally  beautiful,  we  could  have  received  the  idea  of  beauty 
at  all,  or  if  we  had,  certainly  it  had  become  a  matter  of  in- 
difference to  us,  and  of  little  thought,  whereas  through  the 
beneficent  ordaining  of  degrees  in  its  manifestation,  the  hearts 
of  men  are  stirred  by  its  occasional  occurrence  in  its  noblest 
form,  and  all  their  energies  are  awakened  in  the  pursuit  of 
it,  and  endeavor  to  arrest  it  or  recreate  it  for  themselves. 

But  whatever  doubt  there  may  be  respecting  the 
age'n^nfhenceYo  exact  amount  of  modification  of  created  things 
be  received.  admitted  with  reference  to  us,  there  can  be  none 
respecting  the  dignity  of  that  faculty  by  which  we  receive 
the  mysterious  evidence  of  their  divine  origin.  The  fact  of 
our  deriving  constant  pleasure  from  whatever  is  a  type  or 
semblance  of  Divine  attributes,  and  from  nothing  but  that 
which  is  so,  is  the  most  glorious  of  all  that  can  be  demon- 
strated of  human  nature  ;  it  not  only  sets  a  great  gulf  of  specific 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY.    AS  RELATIVE.  279 


separation  between  us  and  the  lower  animals,  but  it  seems  a 
promise  of  a  communion  ultimately  deep,  close,  and  conscious, 
with  the  Being  whose  darkened  manifestations  we  here  feebly 
and  unthinkingly  delight  in.  Probably  to  every  order  of  in- 
telligence more  of  his  image  becomes  palpable  in  all  around 
them,  and  the  glorified  spirits  and  the  angels  have  perceptions 
as  much  more  full  and  rapturous  than  ours,  as  ours  than  those 
of  beasts  and  creeping  things.  And  receiving  it,  as  we  must, 
for  an  universal  axiom  that  "  no  natural  desire  can  be  entirely 
frustrate,"  and  seeing  that  these  desires  are  indeed  so  unfail- 
ing in  us  that  they  have  escaped  not  the  reasoners  of  any 
time,  but  were  held  divine  of  old,  and  in  even  heathen  coun- 
tries, *  it  cannot  be  but  that  there  is  in  these  visionary  pleas- 
ures, lightly  as  we  now  regard  them,  cause  for  thankfulness, 
ground  for  hope,  anchor  for  faith,  more  than  in  all  the  other 
manifold  gifts  and  guidances,  wherewith  God  crowns  the 
years,  and  hedges  the  paths  of  men. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

or  YITAL  BEAUTY.      FIRST,  AS  RELATIYE. 

I  PROCEED  more  particularly  to  examine  the  nature  of  that 
second  kind  of  beauty  of  which  I  spoke  in  the  third  chapter, 
as  consisting  in  the  appearance  of  felicitous  fulfilment  of 
„  ^  _     . .      function  in  livinsr  thino^s."     I  have  already 

§  1.  Transition  .  i  . 

from  typical  to    noticed  the  example  of  very  pure  and  hisrh 

vital  Beauty.  .     i  i  i  •  i    •  i      /.         i  •  t 

typical  beauty  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  lines 
and  gradations  of  unsullied  snow  :  if,  passing  to  the  edge  of 
a  sheet  of  it,  upon  the  lower  Alps,  early  in  May,  we  find,  as 
we  are  nearly  sure  to  find,  two  or  three  little  round  openings 
pierced  in  it,  and  through  these  emergent,  a  slender,  pensive, 

*  'H  Te\eia  ^v^ai^ovia.  dccoprjriK-ff  ris  iariy  ivepyeia.  *  *  rois  [jlcu  yap 
Oedis  &7ras  6  jSios  fxaKoipioSy  ro7s  S'  audpuirois^  €<p^  t(TOi/  bfxoiujfxd  ri  rrjs  rotdvrris 
iuepye'ias  vTvapx^^-  toSu  S'^AAojj/  CvV^  ov8ev  €vSaiiJ.ou€i.  eTreiS);  ovda/bLTf  Koivoo- 
v€i  Ocwpias. — Arist.  Eth.  Lib.  10th.  The  concluding  book  of  the  Ethics 
should  be  carefully  read.    It  is  all  most  valuable. 


280 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


fragile  flower*  whose  small  dark,  purple-fringed  bell  hangs 
down  and  shudders  over  the  icy  cleft  that  it  has  cloven,  as  if 
partly  wondering  at  its  own  recent  grave,  and  partly  dying 
of  very  fatigue  after  its  hard  won  victory  ;  we  shall  be,  or 
we  ought  to  be,  moved  by  a  totally  different  impression  of 
loveliness  from  that  which  we  receive  among  the  dead  ice  and 
the  idle  clouds.  There  is  now  uttered  to  us  a  call  for 
sympathy,  now  offered  to  us  an  image  of  moral  purpose  and 
achievement,  which,  however  unconscious  or  senseless  the 
creature  may  indeed  be  that  so  seems  to  call,  cannot  be 
heard  without  affection,  nor  contemplated  without  worship, 
by  any  of  us  whose  heart  is  rightly  tuned,  or  whose  mind  is 
clearly  and  surely  sighted. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  organic  creation  every  being 
in  a  perfect  state  exhibits  certain  appearances,  or  evidences, 
of  happiness,  and  besides  is  in  its  nature,  its  desires,  its 
modes  of  nourishment,  habitation,  and  death,  illustrative  or 
expressive  of  certain  moral  dispositions  or  principles.  Now, 
first,  in  the  keenness  of  the  sympathy  which  we  feel  in  the 
happiness,  real  or  apparent,  of  all  organic  beings,  and  which, 
as  we  shall  presently  see,  invariably  prompts  us,  from  the  joy 
we  have  in  it,  to  look  upon  those  as  most  lovely  which  are 
most  happy  ;  and  secondly,  in  the  justness  of  the  moral 
sense  which  rightly  reads  the  lesson  they  are  all  intended  to 
teach,  and  classes  them  in  orders  of  worthiness  and  beauty 
according  to  the  rank  and  nature  of  that  lesson,  whether  it 
be  of  warning  or  example,  of  those  that  wallow  or  of  those 
that  soar,  of  the  fiend-hunted  swine  by  the  Gennesaret  lake, 
or  of  the  dove  returning  to  its  ark  of  rest  ;  in  our  right 
accepting  and  reading  of  all  this,  consists,  I  say,  the  ulti- 
mately perfect  condition  of  that  noble  theoretic  faculty, 
whose  place  in  the  system  of  our  nature  I  have  already 
partly  vindicated  with  respect  to  typical,  but  which  can 
only  fully  be  established  with  respect  to  vital  beauty. 

Its  first  perfection,  therefore,  relating  to  vital  beauty,  is 
the  kindness  and  unselfish  fulness  of  heart,  which  receives 

*  Soldanella  Alpina. 


V 


RELATIVE. 


281 


the  utmost  amount  of  pleasure  from  the  happiness  of  all 
things.  Of  which  in  high  degree  the  heart  of  man  is  incap- 
§2.  The  perfec-  able,  neither  what  intense  enjoyment  the  angels 
^e't?c''k*cui^^^^^^  may  have  in  all  that  they  see  of  things  that 
Xrbeaut>s'*i^  ^ove  and  live,  and  in  the  part  they  take  in  the 
charity.  shedding  of  God's  kindness  upon  them,  can 

we  know  or  conceive  :  only  in  proportion  as  we  draw  near  to 
God,  and  are  made  in  measure  like  unto  him,  can  we  increase 
this  our  possession  of  charity,  of  which  the  entire  essence  is 
in  God  only. 

Wherefore  it  is  evident  that  even  the  ordinary  exercise  of 
this  faculty  implies  a  condition  of  the  whole  moral  being  in 
some  measure  right  and  healthy,  and  that  to  the  entire  ex- 
ercise of  it  there  is  necessary  the  entire  perfection  of  the 
Christian  character,  for  he  who  loves  not  God,  nor  his 
brother,  cannot  love  the  grass  beneath  his  feet  and  the 
creatures  that  fill  those  spaces  in  the  universe  which  he 
needs  not,  and  which  live  not  for  his  uses  ;  nay,  he  has 
seldom  grace  to  be  grateful  even  to  those  that  love  him  and 
serve  him,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  none  can  love  God  nor 
his  human  brother  without  lovins:  all  thin^fs  which  his  Father 
loves,  nor  without  looking  upon  them  every  one  as  in  that 
respect  his  brethren  also,  and  perhaps  worthier  than  he,  if  in 
the  under  concords  they  have  to  fill,  their  part  is  touched 
more  truly.  Wherefore  it  is  good  to  read  of  that  kindness 
and  humbleness  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  who  spoke  never  to 
bird  nor  to  cicala,  nor  even  to  wolf  and  beast  of  prey,  but  as 
his  brother  ;  and  so  we  find  are  moved  the  minds  of  all  good 
and  mighty  men,  as  in  the  lesson  that  we  have  from  the 
Mariner  of  Coleridge,  and  yet  more  truly  and  rightly  taught 
in  the  Heartleap  well, 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasure,  or  our  pride, 
With  sorrow  of  the  nieanest  thing  that  feels," 

and  again  in  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  with  the  added 
teaching  of  that  gift,  which  we  have  from  things  beneath 
us,  in  thanks  for  the  love  they  cannot  equally  return  ;  that 
anguish  of  our  own, 


282 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


Is  tempered  and  allayed  by  sympathies, 
Aloffc  descending  and  descending  deep, 
Even  to  the  inferior  kinds," 

so  that  I  know  not  of  anything  more  destructive  of  the 
whole  theoretic  faculty,  not  to  say  of  the  Christian  character 
and  human  intellect,  than  those  accursed  sports  in  which 
man  makes  of  himself,  cat,  tiger,  serpent,  chaetodon,  and 
alligator  in  one,  and  gathers  into  one  continuance  of  cruelty 
for  his  amusement  all  the  devices  that  brutes  sparingly  and 
at  intervals  use  against  each  other  for  their  necessities.* 

As  we  pass  from  those  beings  of  whose  happiness  and  pain 
we  are  certain  to  those  in  which  it  is  doubtful  or  only  seem- 
ing, as  possibly  in  plants,  (though  I  would  fain  hold,  if  I 
§3.  Only  with  might,  "the  faith  that  every  flower  enjoys  the 
Te'sr^afflS  air  it  breathes,"  neither  do  I  ever  crush  or 
than  sympathy,  gather  One  without  some  pain,)  yet  our  feeling 
for  them  has  in  it  more  of  sympathy  than  of  actual  love,  as 
receiving  from  them  in  delight  far  more  than  we  can  give  ; 
for  love,  I  think,  chiefly  grows  in  giving,  at  least  its  essence 
is  the  desire  of  doing  good,  or  giving  happiness,  and  we  can- 
not feel  the  desire  of  that  which  we  cannot  conceive,  so  that 
if  we  conceive  not  of  a  plant  as  capable  of  pleasure,  we  can- 
not desire  to  give  it  pleasure,  that  is,  we  cannot  love  it  in 
the  entire  sense  of  the  term. 

Nevertheless,  the  sympathy  of  very  lofty  and  sensitive  minds 
usually  reaches  so  far  as  to  the  conception  of  life  in  the  plant, 
and  so  to  love,  as  with  Shelley,  of  the  sensitive  plant,  and 
Shakspeare  always,  as  he  has  taught  us  in  the  sweet  voices 
of  Ophelia  and  Perdita,  and  Wordsworth  always,  as  of  the 
daffodils,  and  the  celandine. 

It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold. 

This  neither  is  its  courage,  nor  its  choice, 

But  its  necessity  in  being  old," — 
*  I  would  have  Mr.  Landseer,  before  he  gives  us  any  more  writhing 
otters,  or  yelping  x^acks,  reflect  whether  that  which  is  best  worthy  of 
contemplation  in  a  hound  be  its  ferocity,  or  in  an  otter  its  agony,  or  in 
a  human  being  its  victory,  hardly  achieved  even  with  the  aid  of  its 
more  sagacious  brutal  allies  over  a  poor  little  fish-catching  creature,  a 
foot  long. 


II  EL  ATI  VB, 


283 


and  so  all  other  great  poets  (that  is  to  say,  great  seers  ;  *) 
nor  do  I  believe  that  any  mind,  however  rude,  is  without 
some  slight  perception  or  acknowledgment  of  joyfulness  in 
breathless  things,  as  most  certainly  there  are  none  but  feel 
instinctive  delight  in  the  appearances  of  such  enjoyment. 

For  it  is  matter  of  easy  demonstration,  that  setting  the 
characters  of  typical  beauty  aside,  the  pleasure  afforded  by 
every  organic  form  is  in  proportion  to  its  appearance  of 
.  ,  .    healthy  vital  energ-y  ;  as  in  a  rose-bush,  settins^ 

§  4.  W  h  i  c  h  i  s  '  i    n     i  •  r. 

proportioned  to  aside  all  Considerations  of  gradated  liushing  of 
of  energy^ln^the  color  and  fair  folding  of  line,  which  it  shares 
plants.  with  the  cloud  or  the  snow-wreath,  we  find  in 

and  through  all  this,  certain  signs  pleasant  and  acceptable 
as  signs  of  life  and  enjoyment  in  the  particular  individual 
plant  itself.  Every  leaf  and  stalk  is  seen  to  have  a  function, 
to  be  constantly  exercising  that  function,  and  as  it  seems 
solely  for  the  good  and  enjoyment  of  the  plant.  It  is  true 
that  reflection  will  show  us  that  the  plant  is  not  living  for 
itself  alone,  that  its  life  is  one  of  benefaction,  that  it  gives 
as  well  as  receives,  but  no  sense  of  this  whatsoever  mingles 
with  our  perception  of  physical  beauty  in  its  forms.  Those 
forms  which  appear  to  be  necessary  to  its  health,  the  sym- 
metry of  its  leaflets,  the  smoothness  of  its  stalks,  the  vivid 
green  of  its  shoots,  are  looked  upon  by  us  as  signs  of  the 
plant's  own  happiness  and  perfection  ;  they  are  useless  to 
us,  except  as  they  give  us  pleasure  in  our  sympathizing  with 
that  of  the  plant,  and  if  we  see  a  leaf  withered  or  shrunk  or 
worm-eaten,  we  say  it  is  ugly,  and  feel  it  to  be  most  painful, 
not  because  it  hurts  iis^  but  because  it  seems  to  hurt  the  plant, 
and  conveys  to  us  an  idea  of  pain  and  disease  and  failure  of 
life  in  it, 

.  That  the  amount  of  pleasure  we  receive  is  in  exact  propor- 
tion to  the  appearance  of  vigor  and  sensibility  in  the  plant, 
is  easily  proved  by  observing  the  effect  of  those  which  show 

*  Compare  Milton. 

''They  at  her  coming  sprung 
And  touched  by  her  fair  tendance,  gladlier  grew. " 


284 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


the  evidences  of  it  in  the  least  degree,  as,  for  instance,  any 
of  the  cacti  not  in  flower.  Their  masses  are  heavy  and  simple, 
their  growth  slow,  their  various  parts  jointed  on  one  to  ano- 
ther, as  if  they  were  buckled  or  pinned  together  instead  of 
growing  out  of  each  other,  (note  the  singular  imposition  in 
many  of  them,  the  prickly  pear  for  instance,  of  the  fruit  upon 
the  body  of  the  plant,  so  that  it  looks  like  a  swelling  or  dis- 
ease,) and  often  farther  opposed  by  harsh  truncation  of  line 
as  in  the  cactus  truncatophylla.  All  these  circumstances  so 
concur  to  deprive  the  plant  of  vital  evidences,  that  we  receive 
from  it  more  sense  of  pain  than  of  beauty  ;  and  yet  even 
here,  the  sharpness  of  the  angles,  the  symmetrical  order  and 
strength  of  the  spines,  the  fresh  and  even  color  of  the  body, 
are  looked  for  earnestly  as  signs  of  healthy  condition,  our 
pain  is  increased  by  their  absence,  and  indefinitely  increased 
if  blotches,  and  other  appearances  of  bruise  and  decay  inter- 
fere with  that  little  life  which  the  plant  seems  to  possess. 

The  same  singular  characters  belong  in  animals  to  the  Crust- 
acea, as  to  the  lobster,  crab,  scorpion,  etc.,  and  in  great 
measure  deprive  them  of  the  beauty  which  we  find  in  higher 
orders,  so  that  we  are  reduced  to  look  for  their  beauty  to 
single  parts  and  joints,  and  not  to  the  whole  animal. 

Now  I  wish  particularly  to  impress  upon  the  reader  that  all 
these  sensations  of  beauty  in  the  plant  arise  from  our  unsel- 
fish sympathy  with  its  happiness,  and  not  from  any  view  of 
§  5.  This  sympa-  the  qualities  in  it  which  may  bring  good  to  us, 
and  does  "not^re-  ^^^^  cven  from  our  acknowledgment  in  it  of  any 
gard  utility.  moral  condition  beyond  that  of  mere  felicity  ; 
for  such  an  acknowledgment,  belongs  to  the  second  operation 
of  the  theoretic  faculty  (compare  §  2,)  and  not  to  the  sym- 
pathetic part  which  we  are  at  present  examining  ;  so  that  we 
even  find  that  in  this  respect,  the  moment  we  begin  to  loqjc 
upon  any  creature  as  subordinate  to  some  purpose  out  of  it- 
self, some  of  the  sense  of  organic  beauty  is  lost.  Thus,  when 
we  are  told  that  the  leaves  of  a  plant  are  occupied  in  decom- 
posing carbonic  acid,  and  preparing  oxygen  for  us,  we  begin 
to  look  upon  it  with  some  such  indifference  as  upon  a  gaso- 
meter.   It  has  become  a  machine  ;  some  of  our  sense  of  its 


RELATIVE, 


285 


happiness  is  gone  ;  its  emanation  of  inherent  life  is  no  longer 
pure.  The  bending  trunk,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wind 
above  the  waterfall,  is  beautiful  because  it  is  happy,  though 
it  is  perfectly  useless  to  us.  The  same  trunk,  hewn  down  and 
thrown  across  the  stream,  has  lost  its  beauty.  It  serves  as  a 
bridge,- — it  has  become  useful  ;  it  lives  not  for  itself,  and  its 
beauty  is  gone,  or  what  it  retains  is  purely  typical,  dependent 
on  its  lines  and  colors,  not  on  its  functions.  Saw  it  into 
planks,  and  though  now  adapted  to  become  permanently  use- 
ful, its  whole  beauty  is  lost  forever,  or  to  be  regained  only  in 
part  when  decay  and  ruin  shall  have  withdrawn  it  again  from 
use,  and  left  it  to  receive  from  the  hand  of  nature  the  velvet 
moss  and  varied  liChen,  which  may  again  suggest  ideas  of  in- 
herent happiness,  and  tint  its  mouldering  sides  with  hues  of 
life. 

There  is  something,  I  think,  peculiarly  beautiful  and  in- 
structive in  this  unselfishness  of  the  theoretic  faculty,  and  in 
its  abhorrence  of  all  utility  which  is  based  on  the  pain  or  de- 
struction of  any  creature,  for  in  such  ministering  to  each  other 
as  is  consistent  witli  the  essence  and  energy  of  both,  it  takes 
delight,  as  in  the  clothing  of  the  rock  by  the  herbage,  and  the 
feeding  of  the  herbage  by  the  stream. 

But  still  more  distinct  evidence  of  its  being  indeed  the  ex- 
pression of  happiness  to  which  we  look  for  our  first  pleasure 
in  organic  form,  is  to  be  found  in  the  way  in  which  we  regard 
the  bodily  frame  of  animals  :  of  which  it  is  to 
with  respect^  to  be  notcd  first,  that  there  is  not  anything  which 

animals.  .    ,  ,  « 

causes  so  intense  and  tormenting  a  sense  of  ug- 
liness as  any  scar,  wound,  monstrosity,  or  imperfection  which 
seems  inconsistent  with  the  animal's  ease  and  health  ;  and 
that  although  in  vegetables,  where  there  is  no  immediate  sense 
of  pain,  we  are  comparatively  little  hurt  by  excrescences  and 
irregularities,  but  are  sometimes  even  delighted  with  them, 
and  fond  of  them,  as  children  of  the  oak-apple,  and  sometimes 
look  upon  them  as  more  interesting  than  the  uninjured  con- 
ditions, as  in  the  gnarled  and  knotted  trunks  of  trees  ;  yet 
the  slightest  approach  to  anything  of  the  kind  in  animal  form 
is  regarded  with  intense  horror,  merely  from  the  sense  of  pain 


286 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


it  conveys.  And,  in  the  second  place,  it  is  to  be  noted  that 
whenever  we  dissect  the  animal  frame,  or  conceive  it  as  dis- 
§  7.  And  it  is  de-  sected,  and  substitute  in  our  ideas  the  neatness 
de^iXs^of^mechi  mechanical  contrivance  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
nism.  animal ;  the  moment  we  reduce  enjoyment  to  in- 

genuity, and  volition  to  leverage,  that  instant  all  sense  of 
beauty  disappears.  Take,  for  instance,  the  action  of  the  limb  of 
the  ostrich,  which  is  beautiful  so  long  as  we  see  it  in  its  swift 
uplifting  along  the  desert  sands,  and  trace  in  the  tread  of  it 
her  scorn  of  the  horse  and  his  rider,  but  would  infinitely  lose 
of  its  impressiveness,  if  we  could  see  the  spring  ligament  play- 
ing backwards  and  forwards  in  alternate  jerks  over  the  tu- 
bercle at  the  hock  joint.  Take  again  the  action  of  the  dorsal 
fin  of  the  shark  tribe.  So  long  as  we  observe  the  uniform  en- 
ergy of  motion  in  the  whole  frame,  the  lash  of  the  tail,  bound 
of  body,  and  instantaneous  lowering  of  the  dorsal,  to  avoid 
the  resistance  of  the  water  as  it  turns,  there  is  high  sense  of 
organic  power  and  beauty.  But  when  we  dissect  the  dorsal, 
and  find  that  its  superior  ray  is  supported  in  its  position  by 
a  peg  in  a  notch  at  its  base,  and  that  when  the  fin  is  to  be 
lowered,  the  peg  has  to  be  taken  out,  and  when  it  is  raised 
put  in  again  ;  although  we  are  filled  with  wonder  at  the  in- 
genuity of  the  mechanical  contrivance,  all  our  sense  of  beauty 
is  gone,  and  not  to  be  recovered  until  we  again  see  the  fin 
playing  on  the  animal's  body,  apparently  by  its  own  will  alone, 
with  the  life  running  along  its  rays.  It  is  by  a  beautiful  or- 
dinance of  the  Creator  that  all  these  mechanisms  are  con- 
cealed from  sight,  though  open  to  investigation,  and  that  in 
all  which  is  outwardly  manifested  we  seem  to  see  his  presence 
rather  than  his  workmanship,  and  the  mysterious  breath  of 
life,  rather  than  the  manipulation  of  matter. 

As,  therefore,  it  appears  from  all  evidence  that  it  is  the 
sense  of  felicity  which  we  first  desire  in  organic  form,  it  is 
evident  from  reason,  as  demonstrable  by  experience,  that 
those  forms  will  be  the  most  beautiful  (always,  observe,  leav- 
ing typical  beauty  out  of  the  question)  which  exhibit  most 
of  power,  and  seem  capable  of  most  quick  and  joyous  sensa- 
tion.   Hence  we  find  gradations  of  beauty  from  the  apparent 


EELATIVE, 


287 


impenetrableness  of  hide  and  slow  motion  of  the  elephant  and 
rhinoceros,  from  the  foul  occupation  of  the  vulture,  from  the 
earthy  struggling  of  the  worm,  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  but- 
terfly, the  buoyancy  of  the  lark,  the  swiftness  of  the  fawn 
and  the  horse,  the  fair  and  kingly  sensibility  of  man. 

Thus  far  then,  the  theoretic  faculty  is  concerned  with  the 
happiness  of  animals,  and  its  exercise  depends  on  the  culti- 
vation of  the  affections  only.  Let  us  next  observe  how  it  is 
o  o  .  concerned  with  the  moral  functions  of  animals, 

§  8.  The  second 

perfection  of  the  and  therefore  how  it  is  dependent  on  the  culti- 

theoietic  faculty        , .  a  i  rnu  • 

asconcerned  vation  Oi  every  moral  sense.  inere  is  not  any 
tice  of  mora^  Organic  creature,  but  in  its  history  and  habits  it 
judgment.  shall  exemplify  or  illustrate  to  us  some  moral 
excellence  or  deficiency,  or  some  point  of  God's  providential 
governm.ent,  which  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  know.  Thus  the 
functions  and  the  fates  of  animals  are  distributed  to  them, 
with  a  variety  which  exhibits  to  us  the  dignity  and  results  of 
almost  every  passion  and  kind  of  conduct,  some  filthy  and 
slothful,  pining  and  unhappy  ;  some  rapacious,  restless,  and 
cruel  ;  some  ever  earnest  and  laborious,  and,  1  think,  unhappy 
in  their  endless  labor,  creatures,  like  the  bee,  that  heap  up 
riches  and  cannot  tell  who  shall  gather  them,  and  others  em- 
ployed like  angels  in  endless  offices  of  love  and  praise.  Of 
which  when,  in  right  condition  of  mind,  we  esteem  those 
most  beautiful,  whose  functions  are  the  most  noble,  whether 
as  some,  in  mere  energy,  or  as  others,  in  moral  honor,  so  that 
we  look  with  hate  on  the  foulness  of  the  sloth,  and  the  subt- 
lety of  the  adder,  and  the  rage  of  the  hyena  :  with  the  honor 
due  to  their  earthly  wisdom  we  invest  the  earnest  ant  and 
unwearied  bee  ;  but  we  look  with  full  perception  of  sacred 
function  to  the  tribes  of  burning  plumage  and  choral  voice.* 
And  so  what  lesson  we  might  receive  for  our  earthly  conduct 
from  the  creeping  and  laborious  things,  was  taught  us  by 
that  earthly  king  who  made  silver  to  be  in  Jerusalem  as 
stones  (yet  thereafter  was  less  rich  towards  God).    But  from 

*     Type  of  the  wise — who  soar,  but  never  roam, 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  heaven  and  home." 

(Wordsworth.— To  the  Skylark.) 


2S8 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY, 


the  lips  of  an  heavenly  King,  who  had  not  where  to  lay  his 
head,  we  were  taught  what  lesson  we  have  to  learn  from  those 
higher  creatures  who  sow  not,  nor  reap,  nor  gather  into 
barns,  for  their  Heavenly  Father  feedeth  them. 

There  is  much  difficulty  in  the  way  of  our  looking  with 
this  rightly  brJanced  judgment  on  the  moral  functions  of  the 
animal  tribes,  owing  to  the  independent  and  often  opposing 
§  9  How  imped-  characters  of  typical  beauty,  which  are  among 
ed.  them,  as  it  seems,  arbitrarily  distributed,  so 

that  the  most  fierce  and  cruel  are  often  clothed  in  the  live- 
liest colors,  and  strengthened  by  the  n5blest  forms,  with  this 
only  exception,  that  so  far  as  I  know,  there  is  no  high  beauty 
in  any  slothful  animal,  but  even  among  those  of  prey,  its 
characters  exist  in  exalted  measure  upon  those  that  range 
and  pursue,  and  are  in  equal  degree  withdrawn  from  those 
that  lie  subtly  and  silently  in  the  covert  of  the  reed  and  fens. 
But  that  mind  only  is  fully  disciplined  in  its  theoretic  power, 
which  can,  when  it  chooses,  throwing  off  the  sympathies  and 
repugnancies  with  which  the  ideas  of  destructiveness  or  of 
innocence  accustom  us  to  regard  the  animal  tribes,  as  well  as 
those  meaner  likes  and  dislikes  which  arise,  I  think,  from  the 
greater  or  less  resemblance  of  animal  powers  to  our  own, 
can  pursue  the  pleasures  of  typical  beauty  down  to  the  scales 
of  the  alligator,  the  coils  of  the  serpent,  and  the  joints  of 
the  beetle  ;  and  again,  on  the  other  hand,  regardless  of  the 
impressions  of  typical  beauty,  accept  from  each  creature, 
great  or  small,  the  more  important  lessons  taught  by  its  po- 
sition in  creation  as  sufferer  or  chastiser,  as  lowly  or  having 
dominion,  as  of  foul  habit  or  lofty  aspiration,  and  from  the 
several  perfections  which  all  illustrate  or  possess,  courage, 
perseverance,  industry,  or  intelligence,  or,  higher  yet,  of 
love  and  patience,  and  fidelity  and  rejoicing,  and  never 
§  lu.  The  influ-  Wearied  praise.  Which  moral  perfections  that 
signs  in  ef^xel  ^^cy  indeed  are  productive,  in  proportion  to 
^^o"-  their  expression,   of   instant  beauty  instinct- 

ively felt,  is  best  proved  by  comparing  those  parts  of  ani- 
mals in  which  they  are  definitely  expressed,  as  for  in- 
stance the  eye,  of  which  we  shall  find  those  ugliest  which 


RELATIVE, 


289 


have  in  them  no  expression  nor  life  wliatever,  but  a  corpse- 
like stare,  or  an  indefinite  meaningless  glaring,  as  'in  some 
lights,  those  of  owls  and  cats,  and  mostly  of  insects  and 
of  all  creatures  in  which  the  eye  seems  rather  an  external, 
optical  instrument  than  a  bodily  member  through  which 
emotion  and  virtue  of  soul  may  be  expressed,  (as  preemi- 
nently in  the  chameleon,)  because  the  seeming  want  of  sensi- 
bility and  vitality  in  a  living  creature  is  the  most  painful  of  all 
wants.  And  next  to  these  in  ugliness  come  the  eyes  that 
gain  vitality  indeed,  but  only  by  means  of  the  expression  of 
intense  malignity,  as  in  the  serpent  and  alligator  ;  and  next 
to  these,  to  whose  malignity  is  added  the  virtue  of  subtlety 
and  keenness,  as  of  the  lynx  and  hawk  ;  and  then,  by  di- 
minishing the  malignity  and  increasing  the  expressions  of 
comprehensiveness  and  determination,  we  arrive  at  those  of 
the  lion  and  eagle,  and  at  last,  by  destroying  malignity  alto- 
gether, at  the  fair  eye  of  the  herbivorous  tribes,  wherein  the 
superiority  of  beauty  consists  always  in  the  greater  or  less 
sw^eetness  and  gentleness  primarily,  as  in  the  gazelle,  camel, 
and  ox,  and  in  the  greater  or  less  intellect,  secondarily,  as  in 
the  horse  and  dog,  and  finally,  in  gentleness  and  intellect 
both  in  man.  And  again,  taking  the  mouth,  another  source 
of  expression,  we  find  it  ugliest  where  it  has  none,  as  mostly 
in  fish,  or  perhaps  where  w^ithout  gaining  much  in  expres- 
sion of  any  kind,  it  becomes  a  formidable  destructive  instru- 
ment, as  again  in  the  alligator,  and  then,  by  some  increase  of 
expression,  we  arrive  at  birds'  beaks,  wherein  there  is  more 
obtained  by  the  different  ways  of  setting  on  the  mandibles 
than  is  commonly  supposed,  (compare  the  bills  of  the  duck 
and  the  eagle,)  and  thence  we  reach  the  finely  developed  lips 
of  the  carnivora,  which  nevertheless  lose  that  beauty  they 
have,  in  the  actions  of  snarling  and  biting,  and  from  these 
we  pass  to  the  nobler  because  gentler  and  more  sensible,  of 
the  horse,  camel,  and  fawn,  and  so  again  up  to  man,  only 
the  re  is  less  traceableness  of  the  principle  in  the  mouths  of 
the  lower  animals,  because  they  are  in  slight  measure  only 
capable  of  expression,  and  chiefly  used  as  instruments,  and 
that  of  low  function,  whereas  in  man  the  mouth  is  given 
Vol.  II.— 19 


290 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


most  definitely  as  a  means  of  expression,  beyond  and  above 
its  lower  functions.  Compare  the  remarks  of  Sir  Charles 
Bell  on  this  subject  in  his  Essay  on  Expression,  and  compare 
the  mouth  of  the  negro  head  given  by  him  (p.  28,  third  edi- 
tion) with  that  of  Raffaelle's  St.  Catherine.  I  shall  illustrate 
the  subject  farther  hereafter  by  giving  the  mouth  of  one  of 
the  demons  of  Orcagna's  Inferno,  with  projecting  incisors, 
and  that  of  a  fish  and  a  swine,  in  opposition  to  pure  gram- 
inivorous and  human  forms  ;  but  at  present  it  is  sufficient 
for  my  purpose  to  insist  on  the  single  great  principle,  that, 
wherever  expression  is  possible,  and  uninterfered  with  by 
characters  of  typical  beauty,  which  confuse  the  subject  ex- 
ceedingly as  regards  the  mouth,  (for  the  typical  beauty  of 
the  carnivorous  lips  is  on  a  grand  scale,  while  it  exists  in 
very  low  degree  in  the  beaks  of  birds,)  wherever,  I  say, 
these  considerations  do  not  interfere,  the  beauty  of  the  ani- 
mal form  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the  amount  of  moral  or 
intellectual  virtue  expressed  by  it  ;  and  wherever  beauty 
exists  at  all,  there  is  some  kind  of  virtue  to  which  it  is  ow- 
ing, as  the  majesty  of  the  lion's  eye  is  owing  not  to  its  fe- 
rocity, but  to  its  seriousness  and  seeming  intellect,  and  of  the 
lion's  mouth  to  its  strength  and  sensibility,  and  not  its  gnash- 
ing of  teeth,  nor  wrinkling  in  its  wrath  ;  and  farther  be  it 
noted,  that  of  the  intellectual  or  moral  virtues,  the  moral  are 
those  which  are  attended  with  most  beauty,  so  that  the  gen- 
tle eye  of  the  gazelle  is  fairer  to  look  upon  than  the  more 
keen  glance  of  men,  if  it  be  unkind. 

Of  the  parallel  effects  of  expression  upon  plants  there  is 
little  to  be  noted,  as  the  mere  naming  of  the  subject  cannot 
but  bring  countless  illustrations  to  the  mind  of  every  reader  : 
§11.  As  also  in  ^^^7  this,  that,  as  we  saw  they  were  less  sus- 
piants.  ceptible  of  our  sympathetic  love,  owing  to  the 

absence  in  them  of  capability  of  enjoyment,  so  they  are  less 
open  to  the  affections  based  upon  the  expression  of  moral 
virtue,  owing  to  their  want  of  volition  ;  so  that  even  on  those 
of  them  which  are  deadly  and  unkind  we  look  not  without 
pleasure,  the  more  because  this  their  evil  operation  cannot 
be  by  them  outwardly  expressed,  but  only  by  us  empirically 


RELATIVE. 


291 


known  ;  so  that  of  the  outward  seemings  and  expressions  of 
plants,  there  are  few  but  are  in  some  way  good  and  therefore 
beautiful,  as  of  humility,  and  modesty,  and  love  of  places 
and  things,  in  the  reaching  out  of  their  arms,  and  clasping  of 
their  tendrils  ;  and  energy  of  resistance,  and  patience  of  suf- 
ferino:,  and  beneficence  one  towards  another  in  shade  and 
protection,  and  to  us  also  in  scents  and  fruits  (for  of  their 
healing  virtues,  however  important  to  us,  there  is  no  more 
outward  sense  nor  seeming  than  of  their  properties  mortal 
or  dangerous). 

Whence,  in  fine,  looking  to  the  whole  kingdom  of  organic 
nature,  we  find  that  our  full  receiving  of  its  beauty  depends 
first  on  the  sensibility  and  then  on  the  accuracy  and  touch- 
§  12.  Recapituia-  stouc  faithfulucss  of  the  heart  in  its  moral  judg- 
ments,  so  that  it  is  necessary  that  ^e  should  not 
only  love  all  creatures  well,  but  esteem  them  in  that  order 
which  is  according  to  God's  laws  and  not  according  to  our 
own  human  passions  and  predilections,  not  looking  for  swift- 
ness, and  strength,  and  cunning,  rather  than  for  patience 
and  kindness,  still  less  delighting  in  their  animosity  and  cru- 
elty one  towards  another,  neither,  if  it  may  be  avoided,  in- 
terfering with  the  working  of  nature  in  any  way,  nor,  w^hen 
we  interfere  to  obtain  service,  judging  from  the  morbid  con- 
ditions of  the  animal  or  vegetable  so  induced  ;  for  we  see 
every  day  the  theoretic  faculty  entirely  destroyed  in  those 
who  are  interested  in  particular  animals,  by  their  delight  in 
the  results  of  their  own  teaching,  and  by  the  vain  straining 
of  curiosity  for  new  forms  such  as  nature  never  intended,  as 
the  disgusting  types  for  instance, .  which  we  see  earnestly 
sought  for  by  the  fanciers  of  rabbits  and  pigeons,  and  con- 
stantly in  horses,  substituting  for  the^  true  and  balanced 
beauty  of  the  free  creature  some  morbid  development  of  a 
single  power,  as  of  swiftness  in  the  racer,  at  the  expense,  in 
certain  measure,  of  the  animal's  healthy  constitution  and 
fineness  of  form  ;  and  so  the  delight  of  horticulturists  in  the 
spoiling  of  plants  ;  so  that  in  all  cases  we  are  to  beware  of 
such  opinions  as  seem  in  any  way  referable  to  human  pride, 
or  even  to  the  grateful  or  pernicious  infliuence  of  things  upon 


292 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


ourselves,  and  to  cast  the  mind  free,  and  out  of  ourselves, 
humbly,  and  yet  always  in  that  noble  position  of  pause  above 
the  other  visible  creatures,  nearer  God  than  they,  which  we 
authoritatively  hold,  thence  looking  down  upon  them,  and 
testing  the  clearness  of  our  moral  vision  by  the  extent,  and 
fulness,  and  constancy  of  our  pleasure  in  the  light  of  God's 
love  as  it  embraces  them,  and  the  harmony  of  his  holy  laws, 
that  forever  bring  mercy  out  of  rapine,  and  religion  out  of 
wrath. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

OF  VITAL  BEAUTY.      SECONDLY,  AS  GENERIC. 

Hitherto  we  have  observed  the  conclusions  of  the  theoretic 
faculty  with  respect  to  the  relations  of  happiness,  and  of 
more  or  less  exalted  function  existing  between  different  or- 
§1  The  beauty  ^^^^  Organic  being.  But  we  must  pursue  the 
of  fulfilment  of  inquiry  farther  yet,  and  observe  what  impres- 

appointed  func-      .  t»i  ^ 

tion  in  every  aui-  sions  of  bcauty  are  Connected  with  more  or  less 
perfect  fulfilment  of  the  appointed  function  by 
different  individuals  of  the  same  species.  We  are  now  no 
longer  called  to  pronounce  upon  worthiness  of  occupation  or 
dignity  of  disposition  ;  but  both  employment  and  capacity 
being  known,  and  the  animal's  position  and  duty  fixed,  we 
have  to  regard  it  in  that  respect  alone,  comparing  it  with 
other  individuals  of  its  species,  and  to  determine  how  far  it 
worthily  executes  its  office  ;  whether,  if  scorpion,  it  hath 
poison  enough,  or  if  tiger,  strength  enough,  or  if  dove,  inno- 
cence enough,  to  sustain  rightly  its  place  in  creation,  and 
come  up  to  the  perfect  idea  of  dove,  tiger,  or  scorpion. 

In  the  first  or  sympathetic  operation  of  the  theoretic  fac- 
ulty, it  will  be  remembered,  we  receive  pleasure  from  the 
signs  of  mere  happiness  in  living  things.  In  the  second  theo- 
retic operation  of  comparing  and  judging,  we  constituted 
ourselves  such  judges  of  the  lower  creatures  as  Adam  was 
made  by  God  when  tht^y  were  brought  to  him  to  be  named, 


GENEBIG. 


293 


and  we  allowed  of  beauty  in  them  as  they  reached,  more  or 
less,  to  that  standard  of  moral  perfection  by  which  we  test 
ourselves.  But,  in  the  third  place,  we  are  to  come  down 
again  from  the  judgment  seat,  and  taking  it  for  granted  that 
every  creature  of  God  is  in  some  way  good,  and  has  a  duty 
and  specific  operation  providentially  accessory  to  the  well- 
being  of  all,  we  are  to  look  in  this  faith  to  that  employment 
and  nature  of  each,  and  to  derive  pleasure  from  their  entire 
perfection  and  fitness  for  the  duty  they  have  to  do,  and  in  their 
entire  fulfilment  of  it  :  and  so  we  are  to  take  pleasure  and 
find  beauty  in  the  magnificent  binding  together  of  the  jaws 
of  the  ichthyosaurus  for  catching  and  holding,  and  in  the 
adaptation  of  the  lion  for  springing,  and  of  the  locust  for  de- 
stroying, and  of  the  lark  for  singing,  and  in  every  creature 
for  the  doing  of  that  which  God  has  made  it  to  do.  Which 
faithful  pleasure  in  the  perception  of  the  perfect  operation  of 
lower  creatures  I  have  placed  last  among  the  perfections  of 
the  theoretic  faculty  concerning  them,  because  it  is  commonly 
last  acquired,  both  owing  to  the  humbleness  and  trustfulness 
of  heart  which  it  demands,  and  because  it  implies  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  habits  and  structure  of  every  creature,  such  as 
we  can  but  imperfectly  possess. 

The  perfect  idea  of  the  form  and  condition  in  which  all 
the  properties  of  the  species  are  fully  developed,  is  called  the 
ideal  of  the  species.  The  question  of  the  nature  of  ideal 
§  2.  The  two  conception  of  species,  and  of  the  mode  in  which 
w^o^ ideah"  the  mind  arrives  at  it,  has  been  the  subject  of 
action^ of ^he^irn^  much  discussion,  and  source  of  so  much  em- 
agmation.  barrassment,  chiefly  owing  to  that  unfortunate 
distinction  between  idealism  and  realism  which  leads  most 
people  to  imagine  the  ideal  opposed  to  the  real,  and  therefore 
false^  that  I  think  it  necessary  to  request  the  reader's  most 
careful  attention  to  the  following  positions. 

Any  work  of  art  which  represents,  not  a  material  object,  but 
the  mental  conception  of  a  material  object,  is,  in  the  primary 
sense  of  the  word  ideal  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  represents  an  idea, 
and  not  a  thing.  Any  work  of  art  which  represents  or  realizes 
a  material  object,  is,  in  the  primary  sense  of  the  term,  unideaL 


294 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


Ideal  works  of  art,  therefore,  in  this  first  sense,  represent 
the  result  of  an  act  of  imagination,  and  are  good  or  bad  in 
proportion  to  the  healthy  condition  and  general  power  of  the 
imagination,  whose  acts  they  represent. 

Unideal  works  of  art  (the  studious  production  of  which  is 
termed  realism)  represent  actual  existing  things,  and  are 
good  or  bad  in  proportion  to  the  perfection  of  the  represen- 
tation. 

All  entirely  bad  works  of  art  may  be  divided  into  those 
which,  professing  to  be  imaginative,  bear  no  stamp  of  imagi- 
nation, and  are  therefore  false,  and  those  which,  professing 
to  be  representative  of  matter,  miss  of  the  representation  and 
are  therefore  nugatory. 

It  is  the  habit  of  most  observers  to  regard  art  as  represen- 
tative of  matter,  and  to  look  only  for  the  entireness  of  repre- 
sentation ;  and  it  was  to  this  view  of  art  that  I  limited  the 
arguments  of  the  former  sections  of  the  present  work,  wherein 
having  to  oppose  the  conclusions  of  a  criticism  entirely  based 
upon  the  realist  system,  I  was  compelled  to  meet  that  criti- 
cism on  its  own  grounds.  But  the  greater  part  of  works  of 
art,  more  especially  those  devoted  to  the  expression  of  ideas 
of  beauty,  are  the  results  of  the  agency  of  imagination,  their 
worthiness  depending,  as  above  stated,  on  the  healthy  con- 
dition of  the  imagination. 

Hence  it  is  necessary  for  us,  in  order  to  arrive  at  conclu- 
sions respecting  the  worthiness  of  such  works,  to  define  and 
examine  the  nature  of  the  imaginative  faculty,  and  to  deter- 
mine first  what  are  the  signs  or  conditions  of  its  existence  at 
all  ;  and  secondly,  what  are  the  evidences  of  its  healthy  and 
efiicient  existence,  upon  which  examination  I  shall  enter  in 
the  second  section  of  the  present  part. 

But  there  is  another  sense  of  the  word  ideal  besides  this, 
and  it  is  that  with  which  we  are  here  concerned.  It  is  evi- 
dent that,  so  long  as  we  use  the  word  to  signify  that  art 
§3.  Ortoperfec-  which  represents  ideas  and  not  things,  we  may 
tion  of  type.  truly  of  the  art  which  represents  an 

idea  of  Caliban,  and  not  real  Caliban,  as  of  the  art  which 
represents  an  idea  of  Antinous,  and  not  real  Antinous.  For 


GENERIC. 


295 


that  is  as  much  imagination  which  conceives  the  monster  as 
which  conceives  the  man.  ]f,  however,  Caliban  and  Antia- 
ous  be  creatures  of  the  same  species,  and  the  form  of  the  one 
contain  not  the  fully  developed  types  or  characters  of  the 
species,  while  the  form  of  the  other  presents  the  greater  part 
of  them,  then  the  latter  is  said  to  be  a  form  more  ideal  than 
the  other,  as  a  nearer  approximation  to  the  general  idea  or 
conception  of  the  species. 

Now  it  is  evident  that  this  use  of  the  word  ideal  is  much 
less  accurate  than  the  other,  from  which  it  is  derived,  for  it 
rests  on  the  assumption  that  the  assemblage  of  all  the  char- 
§4  This  last  acters  of  a  species  in  their  perfect  development 
curate,^yet  to^be  cannot  cxist  but  in  the  imagination.  For  if  it 
retained.  actually  and  in  reality  exist,  it  is  not  right 

to  call  it  ideal  or  imaginary  ;  it  would  be  better  to  call  it 
characteristic  or  general,  and  to  reserve  the  word  ideal  for 
the  results  of  the  operation  of  the  imagination,  either  on 
the  perfect  or  imperfect  forms. 

Nevertheless,  the  word  ideal  has  been  so  long  and  univer- 
sally accepted  in  this  sense,  that  I  think  it  better  to  con- 
tinue the  use  of  it,  so  only  that  the  reader  will  be  careful  to 
observe  the  distinction  in  the  sense,  according  to  the  subject 
matter  under  discussion.  At  present  then,  using  it  as  ex- 
pressive of  the  noble  generic  form  which  indicates  the  full 
perfection  of  the  creature  in  all  its  functions,  I  wish  to  exam- 
ine how  far  this  perception  exists  or  may  exist  in  nature,  and 
if  not  in  nature,  how  it  is  by  us  discoverable  or  imaginable. 

Now  it  is  better,  when  we  wish  to  arrive  at  truth,  always 
to  take  familiar  instances,  wherein  the  mind  is  not  likely  to 
be  biassed  by  any  elevated  associations  or  favorite  theories. 

Let  us  ask  therefore,  first,  what  kind  of  ideal 

§5.  Of  Ideal  form.  m  i  t 

First,  in  the  lower  form  may  be  attributed  to  a  limpet  or  an  oyster, 
that  is  to  say,  whether  all  oysters  do  or  do  not 
come  up  to  the  entire  notion  or  idea  of  an  oyster.  I  appre- 
hend that,  although  in  respect  of  size,  age,  and  kind  of  feed- 
ing, there  may  be  some  difference  between  them,  yet  of  those 
which  are  of  full  size  and  healthy  condition  there  will  be 
found  many  which  fulfil  the  conditions  of  an  oyster  in  every 


296 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


respect,  and  that  so  perfectly,  that  we  could  not,  by  combin- 
ing the  features  of  two  or  more  together,  produce  a  more 
perfect  oyster  than  any  that  we  see.  I  suppose  also,  that, 
out  of  a  number  of  healthy  fish,  birds,  or  beasts  of  the  same 
species,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  select  an  individual  as  supe- 
rior to  all  the  rest  ;  neither  by  comparing  two  or  more  of  the 
nobler  examples  together,  to  arrive  at  the  conception  of  a 
form  superior  to  that  of  either  ;  but  that,  though  the  acci- 
dents of  more  abundant  food  or  more  fitting  habitation  may 
induce  among  them  some  varieties  of  size,  strength,  and  color, 
yet  the  entire  generic  form  would  be  presented  by  many, 
neither  would  any  art  be  able  to  add  to  or  diminish  from  it. 

It  is,  therefore,  hardly  right  to  use  the  word  ideal  of  the 
generic  forms  of  these  creatures,  of  which  we  see  actual  ex- 
amples ;  but  if  we  are  to  use  it,  then  be  it  distinctly  under- 
§6.  inwhatcon-  stood  that  their  ideality  consists  in  the  full  de- 
sistent.  velopment  of  all  the  powers  and  properties  of 

the  creature  as  such,  and  is  inconsistent  with  accidental 
or  imperfect  developments,  and  even  with  great  variation 
from  average  size,  the  ideal  size  being  neither  gigantic  nor 
diminutive,  but  the  utmost  grandeur  and  entireness  of  pro- 
portion at  a  certain  point  above  the  mean  size  ;  for  as  more 
individuals  always  fall  short  of  generic  size  than  rise  above 
it,  the  generic  is  above  the  average  or  mean  size.  And  this 
perfection  of  the  creature  invariably  involves  the  utmost 
possible  degree  of  all  those  properties  of  beauty,  both  typical 
and  vital,  which  it  is  appointed  to  possess. 

Let  us  next  observe  the  conditions  of  ideality  in  vegetables. 
Out  of  a  large  number  of  primroses  or  violets,  I  apprehend 
that,  although  one  or  two  might  be  larger  than  all  the  rest, 
I  7.  Ideal  form  the  greater  part  would  be  very  sufficient  prim- 
in  vegetables.  ^^^^^  j  violets.  And  that  we  could,  by  no  study 
nor  combination  of  violets,  conceive  of  a  better  violet  than 
many  in  the  bed.  And  so  generally  of  the  blossoms  and 
separate  members  of  all  vegetables. 

But  among  the  entire  forms  of  the  complex  vegetables,  as 
of  oak-trees,  for  instance,  there  exists  very  large  and  constant 
difference,  some  being  what  we  hold  to  be  fine  oaks,  as  in 


GENERIC, 


297 


parks,  and  places  where  they  are  taken  care  of,  and  have  their 
own  way,  and  some  are  but  poor  and  mean  oaks,  which  have 
had  no  one  to  take  care  of  them,  but  have  been  obliged  to 
maintain  themselves. 

That  which  we  have  to  determine  is,  whether  ideality  be 
predicable  of  the  fine  oaks  only,  or  whether  the  poor  and 
mean  oaks  also  may  be  considered  as  ideal,  that  is,  coming 
up  to  the  conditions  of  oak,  and  the  general  notion  of  oak. 

Now  there  is  this  difference  between  the  positions  held  in 
creation  by  animals  and  plants,  and  thence  in  the  dispositions 
with  which  we  regard  them  ;  that  the  animals,  being  for  the 
§  a  The  differ-  most  part  locomotivc,  are  capable  both  of  living 
between  ^°pian£  where  they  choose,  and  of  obtaining  what  food 
and  animals.  they  Want,  and  of  fulfilling  all  the  conditions 
necessary  to  their  health  and  perfection.  For  which  reason 
they  are  answerable  for  such  health  and  perfection,  and  we 
should  be  displeased  and  hurt  if  we  did  not  find  it  in  one  in- 
dividual as  well  as  another. 

But  the  case  is  evidently  different  with  plants.  They  are 
intended  fixedly  to  occupy  many  places  comparatively  unfit 
for  them,  and  to  fill  up  all  the  spaces  where  greenness,  and 
coolness,  and  ornament,  and  oxygen  are  wanted,  and  that 
with  very  little  reference  to  their  comfort  or  convenience. 
Now  it  would  be  hard  upon  the  plant  if,  after  being  tied  to 
a  particular  spot,  where  it  is  indeed  much  wanted,  and  is  a 
great  blessing,  but  where  it  has  enough  to  do  to  live,  whence 
it  cannot  move  to  obtain  what  it  wants  or  likes,  but  must 
stretch  its  unfortunate  arms  here  and  there  for  bare  breath 
and  light,  and  split  its  way  among  rocks,  and  grope  for  sus- 
tenance in  unkindly  soil  ;  it  would  be  hard  upon  the  plant, 
I  say,  if  under  all  these  disadvantages,  it  were  made  answer- 
able for  its  appearance,  and  found  fault  with  because  it  was 
not  a  fine  plant  of  the  kind.  And  so  we  find  it  ordained  that 
in  order  that  no  unkind  comparisons  may  be 

§  9.  Admits  of  va-    .  ,  i  i  i 

riety  in  the  ideal  drawn  between  one  and  another,  there  are  not 
of  the  former.  appointed  to  plants  the  fixed  number,  position, 
and  proportion  of  members  which  are  ordained  in  animals, 
(and  any  variation  from  which  in  these  is  unpardonable,)  but 


298 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


a  continually  varying  number  and  position,  even  among  the 
more  freely  growing  examples,  admitting  therefore  all  kinds 
of  license  to  those  which  have  enemies  to  contend  with,  and 
that  without  in  any  way  detracting  from  their  dignity  and 
perfection. 

So  then  there  is  in  trees  no  perfect  form  which  can  be  fixed 
upon  or  reasoned  out  as  ideal  ;  but  that  is  always  an  ideal 
oak  which,  however  poverty-stricken,  or  hunger-pinched,  or 
tempest-tortured,  is  yet  seen  to  have  done,  under  its  ap- 
pointed circumstances,  all  that  could  be  expected  of  oak. 

The  ideal,  therefore,  of  the  park  oak  is  that  to  which  I  al- 
luded in  the  conclusion  of  the  former  part  of  this  work,  full 
size,  united  terminal  curve,  equal  and  symmetrical  range  of 
branches  on  each  side.  The  ideal  of  the  mountain  oak  may 
be  anything,  twisting,  and  leaning,  and  shattered,  and  rock- 
encumbered,  so  only  that  amidst  all  its  misfortunes,  it  main- 
tain the  dignity  of  oak  ;  and,  indeed,  I  look  upon  this  kind 
of  tree  as  more  ideal  than  the  other,  in  so  far  as  by  its  efforts 
and  struggles,  more  of  its  nature,  enduring  power,  patience 
in  waiting  for,  and  ingenuity  in  obtaining  what  it  wants,  is 
brought  out,  and  so  more  of  the  essence  of  oak  exhibited, 
than  under  more  fortunate  conditions. 

And  herein,  then,  we  at  last  find  the  cause  of  that  fact 
which  we  have  twice  already  noted,  that  the  exalted  or  seem- 
ingly improved  condition,  whether  of  plant  or  animal,  induced 
§  10.  Ideal  form  by  human  interference,  is  not  the  true  and  ar- 
stro^l^brcu^^^^  tistical  ideal  of  it.*  It  has  been  well  shown  by 
vation.  Herbert,f  that  many  plants  are  found  alone 

on  a  certain  soil  or  subsoil  in  a  wild  state,  not  because  such 
soil  is  favorable  to  them,  but  because  they  alone  are  capable 

*  I  speak  not  here  of  those  conditions  of  vegetation  which  have  es- 
pecial reference  to  man,  as  of  seeds  and  fruits,  whose  sweetness  and 
farina  seem  in  great  measure  given,  not  for  the  plant's  sake,  but  for 
his,  and  to  which  therefore  the  interruption  in  the  harmony  of  creation 
of  which  he  was  the  cause  is  extended,  and  their  sweetness  and  larger 
measure  of  good  to  be  obtained  only,  by  his  redeeming  labor.  His  curse 
h.LS  fallen  on  the  corn  and  the  vine,  and  the  wild  barley  misses  of  its 
fulness,  that  he  may  eat  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 

f  J ournal  of  the  Horticultural  Society.    Part  I. 


GENERIC. 


299 


of  existing  on  it,  and  because  all  dangerous  rivals  are  by  its 
inhospitality  removed.  Now  if  we  withdraw  the  plant  from 
this  position,  which  it  hardly  endures,  and  supply  it  with  the 
earth,  and  maintain  about  it  the  temperature  that  it  delights 
in  ;  withdrawing  from  it  at  the  same  time  all  rivals  which,  in 
such  conditions  nature  would  have  thrust  upon  it,  we  shall 
indeed  obtain  a  magnificently  developed  example  of  the  plant, 
colossal  in  size,  and  splendid  in  organization,  but  we  shall 
utterly  lose  in  it  that  moral  ideal  which  is  dependent  on  its 
right  fulfilment  of  its  appointed  functions.  It  was  intended 
and  created  by  the  Deity  for  the  covering  of  those  lonely 
spots  where  no  other  plant  could  live  ;  it  has  been  thereto 
endowed  with  courage,  and  strength,  and  capacities  of  en- 
durance unequalled  ;  its  character  and  glory  are  not  there- 
fore in  the  gluttonous  and  idle  feeling  of  its  own  over  luxuri- 
ance, at  the  expense  of  other  creatures  utterly  destroyed  and 
rooted  out  for  its  good  alone,  but  in  its  right  doing  of  its 
hard  duty,  and  forward  climbing  into  those  spots  of  forlorn 
hope  where  it  alone  can  bear  witness  to  the  kindness  and 
presence  of  the  Spirit  that  cutteth  out  rivers  among  the 
rocks,  as  it  covers  the  valleys  with  corn  :  and  there,  in  its 
vanward  place,  and  only  there,  where  nothing  is  withdrawn 
for  it,  nor  hurt  by  it,  and  where  nothing  can  take  part  of  its 
honor,  nor  usurp  its  throne,  are  its  strength,  and  fairness,  and 
price,  and  goodness  in  the  sight  of  God,  to  be  truly  esteemed. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  the  soldanella  alpina,  before 
spoken  of,  it  was  growing,  of  magnificent  size,  on  a  sunny 
Alpine  pasture,  among  bleating  of  sheep  and  lowing  of  cat- 
§11  Instance  in  associated  with  a  profusion  of  geum  mon- 
the    Soldanella  tanum,  and  ranunculus  pyrenaeus*    I  noticed 

and  Ranunculus,    ,         ^  ^ 

it  only  because  new  to  me,  nor  perceived  any 
peculiar  beauty  in  its  cloven  flower.  Some  days  after,  I 
found  it  alone,  among  the  rack  of  the  higher  clouds,  and 
howling  of  glacier  winds,  and,  as  I  described  it,  piercing 
through  an  edge  of  avalanche,  which  in  its  retiring  had  left 
the  new  ground  brown  and  lifeless,  and  as  if  burned  by 
recent  fire  ;  the  plant  was  poor  and  feeble,  and  seemingly 
exhausted  with  its  efforts,  but  it  was  then  that  I  compre- 


300 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY, 


hended  its  ideal  character,  and  saw  its  noble  function  and 
order  of  glory  among  the  constellations  of  the  earth. 

The  ranunculus  glacialis  might  perhaps,  by  cultivation,  bje 
blanched  from  its  wan  and  corpse-like  paleness  to  purer 
white,  and  won  to  more  branched  and  lofty  development  of 
its  ragged  leaves.  But  the  ideal  of  the  plant  is  to  be  found 
only  in  the  last,  loose  stones  of  the  moraine,  alone  there  ; 
wet  with  the  cold,  unkindly  drip  of  the  glacier  water,  and 
trembling  as  the  loose  and  steep  dust  to  which  it  clings 
yields  ever  and  anon,  and  shudders  and  crumbles  away  from 
about  its  root. 

And  if  it  be  asked  how  this  conception  of  the  utmost 
beauty  of  ideal  form  is  consistent  with  what  we  formerly 
argued  respecting  the  pleasantness  of  the  appearance  of 
§  12  The  beauty  ^^^i^i^J  creature,  let  it  be  observed,  and 

of  repose  and  fe-  forever  held,  that  the  ris^ht  and  true  happiness 

licitv,  how  con-  .     .       ,  .  .  , 

sistent  with  such  of  every  creature,  is  m  this  very  discharge  of  its 
function,  and  in  those  efforts  by  which  its 
strength  and  inherent  energy  are  developed  :  and  that  the 
repose  of  which  we  also  spoke  as  necessary  to  all  beauty,  is, 
as  was  then  stated,  repose  not  of  inanition,  nor  of  luxury, 
nor  of  irresolution,  but  the  repose  of  magnificent  energy  and 
being  ;  in  action,  the  calmness  of  trust  and  determination  ; 
in  rest,  the  consciousness  of  duty  accomplished  and  of 
victory  won,  and  this  repose  and  this  felicity  can  take  place 
as  well  in  the  midst  of  trial  and  tempest,  as  beside  the 
waters  of  comfort  ;  they  perish  only  when  the  creature  is 
either  unfaithful  to  itself,  or  is  afflicted  by  circumstances 
unnatural  and  malignant  to  its  being,  and  for  the  contend- 
inof  with  which  it  was  neither  fitted  nor  ordained.  Hence 

o 

that  rest  which  is  indeed  glorious  is  of  the  chamois  couched 
breathless  on  his  granite  bed,  not  of  the  stalled  ox  over  his 
fodder,  and  that  happiness  which  is  indeed  beautiful  is  in 
the  bearing  of  those  trial  tests  which  are  appointed  for  the 
proving  of  every  creature,  whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it 
be  evil  ;  and  in  the  fulfilment  to  the  uttermost  of  every  com- 
mand it  has  received,  and  the  out-carrying  to  the  uttermost 
of  every  power  and  gift  it  has  gotten  from  its  God. 


GENERIC. 


301 


Therefore  the  task  of  the  painter  in  his  pursuit  of  ideal 
form  is  to  attain  accurate  knowledge,  so  far  as  may  be  in  his 
power,  of  the  character,  habits,  and  peculiar  virtues  and 
§13  Theideaiity  duties  of  every  species  of  being  ;  down  even  to 
the  stone,  for  there  is  an  ideality  of  stones  ac- 
cording to  their  kind,  an  ideality  of  granite  and  slate  and 
marble,  and  it  is  in  the  utmost  and  most  exalted  exhibition 
of  such  individual  character,  order,  and  use,  that  all  ideality 
of  art  consists.  The  more  cautious  he  is  in  assigning  the 
right  species  of  moss  to  its  favorite  trunk,  and  the  right 
kind  of  weed  to  its  necessary  stone,  in  marking  the  definite 
and  characteristic  leaf,  blossom,  seed,  fracture,  color,  and  in- 
ward anatomy  of  everything,  the  more  truly  ideal  his  work 
becomes.  All  confusion  of  species,  all  careless  rendering  of 
character,  all  unnatural  and  arbitrary  association,  is  vulgar 
and  unideal  in  proportion  to  its  degree. 

§  14.  How  con-  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  nature  some- 
ima^ginative  fac^  times  in  a  measure  herself  conceals  these  gen- 
eric  differences,  and  that  when  she  displays 
them  it  is  commonly  on  a  scale  too  small  for  human  hand  to 
follow. 

The  pursuit  and  seizure  of  the  generic  differences  in  their 
concjpalment,  and  the  display  of  them  on  a  larger  and  more 
palpable  scale,  is  one  of  the  wholesome  and  healthy  opera- 
tions of  the  imagination  of  which  we  are  presently  to  speak.* 

Generic  differences  being  commonly  exhibited  by  art  in 
different  manner  and  way  from  that  of  their  natural  occur- 
rence, are  in  this  respect  more  strictly  and  truly  ideal  in  art 
than  in  reality. 

This  only  remains  to  be  noted,  that,  of  all  creatures  whose 
existence  involves  birth,  progress,  and  dissolution,  ideality  is 
predicable  all  through  their  existence,  so  that  they  be  per- 
^,        ^     feet  with  reference  to  their  supposed  period 

§  15.  Ideality,  how  .  .  .  . 

belonging  to  ages  of  beiup^.    Thus  there  is  an  ideal  of  infancy, 

and  conditions.  ipit  pii  ■^  ^ 

oi  youth,  oi  old  age,  ot  death,  and  ot  decay. 
But  when  the  ideal  form  of  the  species  is  spoken  of  or  con- 


*  Compare  Sect.  II.  Chap.  IV. 


302 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


ceived  in  general  terms,  the  form  is  understood  to  be  of  that 
period  when  the  generic  attributes  are  perfectly  developed, 
and  previous  to  the  commencement  of  their  decline.  At 
which  period  all  the  characters  of  vital  and  typical  beauty 
are  commonly  most  concentrated  in  them,  though  the  arrange- 
ment and  proportion  of  these  characters  varies  at  different 
periods,  youth  having  more  of  the  vigorous  beauty,  and  age 
of  the  reposing  ;  youth  of  typical  outward  fairness,  and  age 
of  expanded  and  etherealized  moral  expression  ;  the  babe, 
again,  in  some  measure  atoning  in  gracefulness  for  its  want 
of  strength,  so  that  the  balanced  glory  of  the  creature  con- 
tinues in  solemn  interchange,  perhaps  even 

**  Filling  more  and  more  with  crystal  light, 
As  pensive  evening  deepens  into  night." 

Hitherto,  however,  we  have  confined  ourselves  to  the  ex- 
amination of  ideal  form  in  the  lower  animals,  and  we  have 
found  that,  to  arrive  at  it,  no  combination  of  forms  nor  ex- 
ertion of  fancy  is  required,  but  only  simple  choice  among 
those  naturally  presented,  together  with  careful  investiga- 
tion and  anatomizing  of  the  habits  of  the  creatures.  I  fear 
we  shall  arrive  at  a  very  different  conclusion,  in  considering 
the  ideal  form  of  man. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

OF  VITAL  BEAUTY.     THIRDLY,  IN  MAN*. 

Having  thus  passed  gradually  through  all  the  orders  and 
fields  of  creation,  and  traversed  that  goodly  line  of  God's 
happy  creatures  who  "  leap  not,  but  express  a  feast,  where 
§  1.  Condition  of  all  the  guests  sit  close,  and  nothing  wants," 
ure  ^eXreirdif^  without  finding  any  deficiency  which  human  in- 
of The  lower  anl-  vention  might  supply,  nor  any  harm  which  hu- 
"^^^^^  man  interference  might  mend,  we  come  at  last 

to  set  ourselves  face  to  face  with  ourselves,  expecting  that 
in  creatures  made  after  the  image  of  God  we  are  to  find 


IN  MAN. 


303 


comeliness  and  completion  more  exquisite  than  in  the  fowls 
of  the  air  and  the  things  that  pass  through  the  paths  of  the 
sea. 

But  behold  now  a  sudden  change  from  all  former  experi- 
ence. No  longer  among  the  individuals  of  the  race  is  there 
equality  or  likeness,  a  distributed  fairness  and  fixed  type 
visible  in  each,  but  evil  diversity,  and  terrible  stamp  of  vari- 
ous degradation  ;  features  seamed  with  sickness,  dimmed  by 
sensuality,  convulsed  by  passion,  pinched  by  poverty,  shad- 
owed by  sorrow,  branded  with  remorse  ;  bodies  consumed 
with  sloth,  broken  down  by  labor,  tortured  by  disease,  dis- 
honored in  foul  uses  ;  intellects  without  power,  hearts  with- 
out hope,  minds  earthly  and  devilish  ;  our  bones  full  of  the 
sin  of  our  youth,  the  heaven  revealing  our  iniquity,  the  earth 
rising  up  against  us,  the  roots  dried  up  beneath,  and  the 
branch  cut  off  above  ;  well  for  us  only,  if,  after  beholding 
this  our  natural  face  in  a  glass,  we  desire  not  straightway  to 
forget  what  manner  of  men  we  be. 

Herein  there  is  at  last  something,  and  too  much,  for  that 
short  stopping  intelligence  and  dull  perception  of  ours  to  ac- 
complish, whether  in  earnest  fact,  or  in  the  seeking  for  the 
outward  imae^e  of  beauty  : — to  undo  the  devil's 

§  2.  What  room  °  i       i      i       i  i  i 

here  for  ideaiiza-  work,  to  Tcstorc  to  the  body  the  grace  and  the 
power  which  inherited  disease  has  destroyed,  to 
return  to  the  spirit  the  purity,  and  to  the  intellect  the  grasp 
that  they  had  in  Paradise.  Now,  first  of  all,  this  work,  be  it 
observed  is  in  no  respect  a  work  of  imagination.  Wrecked 
we  are,  and  nearly  all  to  pieces  ;  but  that  little  good  by  which 
we  are  to  redeem  ourselves  is  to  be  got  out  of  the  old  wreck, 
beaten  about  and  full  of  sand  though  it  be  ;  and  not  out  of 
that  desert  island  of  pride  on  which  the  devils  split  first,  and 
we  after  them  :  and  so  the  only  restoration  of  the  body  that 
we  can  reach  is  not  to  be  coined  out  of  our  fancies,  but  to  be 
collected  out  of  such  uninjured  and  bright  vestiges  of  the  old 
seal  as  we  can  find  and  set  together,  and  so  the  ideal  of  the 
features,  as  the  good  and  perfect  soul  is  seen  in  them,  is  not 
to  be  reached  by  imagination,  but  by  the  seeing  and  reach- 
ing forth  of  the  better  part  of  the  soul  to  that  of  which  it 


304 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY, 


must  first  know  the  sweetness  and  goodness  in  itself,  before 
it  can  much  desire,  or  rightly  find,  the  signs  of  it  in  others. 

I  say  much  desire  and  rightly  find,  because  there  is  not 
any  soul  so  sunk  but  that  it  shall  in  some  measure  feel  the 
impression  of  mental  beauty  in  the  human  features,  and  de- 
test in  others  its  own  likeness,  and  in  itself  despise  that 
which  of  itself  it  has  made. 

Now,  of  the  ordinary  process  by  which  the  realization  of 
ideal  bodily  form  is  reached,  there  is  explanation  enough  in 
all  treatises  on  art,  and  it  is  so  far  well  comprehended  that  I 
§3.  Howthecon-  need  not  stay  long  to  consider  it.  So  far  as  the 
bodiir  idLi*^is  sight  and  knowledge  of  the  human  form,  of  the 
reached.  purest  race,  exercised  from  infancy  constantly, 

but  not  excessively  in  all  exercises  of  dignity,  not  in  twists 
and  straining  dexterities,  but  in  natural  exercises  of  running, 
casting,  or  riding  ;  practised  in  endurance,  not  of  extraordi- 
nary hardship,  for  that  hardens  and  degrades  the  body,  but 
of  natural  hardship,  vicissitudes  of  winter  and  summer,  and 
cold  and  heat,  yet  in  a  climate  where  none  of  these  are  se- 
vere ;  surrounded  also  by  a  certain  degree  of  right  luxury, 
so  as  to  soften  and  refine  the  forms  of  strength  ;  so  far  as 
the  sight  of  all  this  could  render  the  mental  intelligence  of 
what  is  right  in  human  form  so  acute  as  to  be  able  to  ab- 
stract and  combine  from  the  best  examples  so  produced,  that 
which  was  most  perfect  in  each,  so  far  the  Greek  conceived 
and  attained  the  ideal  of  bodily  form  :  and  on  the  Greek 
modes  of  attaining  it,  as  well  as  on  what  he  produced,  as  a 
perfect  example  of  it,  chiefly  dwell  those  writers  whose  opin- 
ions on  this  subject  I  have  collected  ;  wholly  losing  sight  of 
what  seems  to  me  the  most  important  branch  of  the  inquiry, 
namely,  the  influence  for  good  or  evil  of  the  mind  upon  the 
bodily  shape,  the  wreck  of  the  mind  itself,  and  the  modes  by 
which  we  may  conceive  of  its  restoration. 
,  „  Now,  the  operation  of  the  mind  upon  the 

§  4.  Modifications  .  .  ^ 

of  the  bodily  ideal  body,  and  evidence  of  it  thereon,  may  be  con- 
owing  to  influence     •!!  ^     p  ^^      '        i  ^  ^  i 
of  mind.    First,  sidcred  Under  the  loilowing  three  general  heads. 

o  intellect.  First,  the  operation  of  the  intellectual  pow- 

ers upon  the  features,  in  the  fine  cutting  and  chiselling  of 


IN  MAN. 


305 


them,  and  removal  from  them  of  signs  of  sensuality  and 
sloth,  by  which  they  are  blunted  and  deadened,  and  substitu- 
tion of  energy  and  intensity  for  vacancy  and  insipidity,  (by 
which  wants  alone  the  faces  of  many  fair  w^omen  are  utterly 
spoiled  and  rendered  valueless,)  and  by  the  keenness  given 
to  the  eye  and  fine  moulding  and  development  to  the  brow, 
of  which  effects  Sir  Charles  Bell  has  well  noted  the  desira- 
bleness and  opposition  to  brutal  types,  (p.  59,  third  edition  ;) 
only  this  he  has  not  sufficiently  observed,  that  there  are 
certain  virtues  of  the  intellect  in  measure  inconsistent  with 
each  other,  as  perhaps  great  subtlety  with  great  comprehen- 
siveness, and  high  analytical  with  high  imaginative  power, 
or  that  at  least,  if  consistent  and  compatible,  their  signs 
upon  the  features  are  not  the  same,  so  that  the  outward  form 
cannot  express  both,  without  in  a  measure  expressing  nei- 
ther ;  and  so  there  are  certain  separate  virtues  of  the  out- 
ward form  correspondent  with  the  more  constant  employ- 
ment or  more  prevailing  capacity  of  the  brain,  as  the  piercing 
keenness,  or  open  and  reflective  comprehensiveness  of  the 
eye  and  forehead,  and  that  all  these  virtues  of  form  are  ideal, 
only  those  the  most  so  which  are  the  signs  of  the  worthiest 
powers  of  intellect,  though  which  these  be,  we  will  not  at 
present  stay  to  inquire. 

The  second  point  to  be  considered  in  the  influence  of  mind 
upon  body,  i^  the  mode  of  operation  and  conjunction  of  the 
^  ^  „  ,  moral  feeling^s  on  and  with  the  intellectual  pow- 

§  5.  Secondly,  of  °  .  .   .        .  ^ 

the  moral  feel-  ers,  and  then  their  conjoint  influence  on  the 
bodily  form.  Now,  the  operation  of  the  right 
moral  feelings  on  the  intellect  is  always  for  the  good  of  the 
latter,  for  it  is  not  possible  that  selfishness  should  reason 
rightly  in  any  respect,  but  must  be  blind  in  its  estimation  of 
the  worthiness  of  all  things,  neither  anger,  for  that  overpow- 
ers the  reason  or  outcries  it,  neither  sensuality,  for  that  over- 
grows and  chokes  it,  neither  agitation,  for  that  has  no  time 
to  compare  things  together,  neither  enmity,  for  that  must  be 
unjust,  neither  fear,  for  that  exaggerates  all  things,  neither 
cunning  and  deceit,  for  that  which  is  voluntarily  untrue  will 
soon  be  unwittingly  so  :  but  the  great  reasoners  are  self-com- 
VoL.  II.— 20 


306  OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 

mand,  and  trust  unagitated,  and  deep-looking  Love,  and 
Faith,  which  as  she  is  above  Reason,  so  she  best  holds  the 
reins  of  it  from  her  high  seat  :  so  that  they  err  grossly  who 
think  of  the  right  development  even  of  the  intellectual  type 
as  possible,  unless  we  look  to  higher  sources  of  beauty  first. 
Nevertheless,  though  in  their  operation  upon  them  the  moral 
feelings  are  thus  elevatory  of  the  mental  faculties,  yet  in 
their  conjunction  with  them  they  seem  to  occupy,  in  their 
own  fulness,  such  room  as  to  absorb  and  overshadow  all  else, 
so  that  the  simultaneous  exercise  of  both  is  in  a  sort  impos- 
sible ;  for  which  cause  we  occasionally  find  the  moral  part  in 
full  development  and  action,  without  corresponding  expand- 
ing of  the  intellect  (though  never  without  healthy  condition 
of  it,)  as  in  that  of  Wordsworth, 

* '  In  such  high  hour 

Of  visitation  from  the  Living  God, 

Thought  was  not ; 

only  I  think  that  if  we  look  far  enough,  we  shall  find  that  it 
is  not  intelligence  itself,  but  the  immediate  act  and  effort  of 
a  laborious,  struggling,  and  imperfect  intellectual  faculty, 
with  which  high  moral  emotion  is  inconsistent  ;  and  that 
though  we  cannot,  while  we  feel  deeply,  reason  shrewdly,  yet 
I  doubt  if,  except  when  we  feel  deeply,  we  can  ever  compre- 
hend fully  ;  so  that  it  is  only  the  climbing  and  mole-like 
piercing,  and  not  the  sitting  upon  their  centraj  throne,  nor 
emergence  into  light,  of  the  intellectual  faculties  which  the 
full  heart  feeling  allows  not.  Hence,  therefore,  in  the  indi- 
cations of  the  countenance,  they  are  only  the  hard  cut  lines, 
and  rigid  settings,  and  wasted  hollows,  that  speak  of  past 
effort  and  painfulness  of  mental  application,  which  are  in- 
consistent with  expression  of  moral  feeling,  for  all  these  are 
of  infelicitous  augury  ;  but  not  the  full  and  serene  develop- 
ment of  habitual  command  in  the  look,  and  solemn  thought 
in  the  brow,  only  these,  in  their  unison  with  the  signs  of 
emotion,  become  softened  and  gradually  confounded  with  a 
serenity  and  authority  of  nobler  origin.  But 

§  C.  What  beauty      „,  ,.,     i       i-i  •  /p 

ia  bestowed   by  of  the  swcetness  which  that  higher  serenity  (or 
happiness,)  and  the  dignity  which  that  higher 


IN  MAK 


307 


authority  (of  Divine  law,  and  not  human  reason,)  can  and 
must  stamp  on  the  features,  it  would  be  futile  to  speak  here 
at  length,  for  I  suppose  that  both  are  acknowledged  on  all 
hands,  and  that  there  is  not  any  beauty  but  theirs  to  which 
men  pay  long  obedience  :  at  all  events,  if  not  by  sympa- 
thy discovered,  it  is  not  in  words  explicable  with  what  Di- 
vine lines  and  lights  the  exercise  of  godliness  and  charity 
will  mould  and  gild  the  hardest  and  coldest  countenance, 
neither  to  what  darkness  their  departure  will  consign  the 
loveliest.  For  there  is  not  any  virtue  the  exercise  of 
which,  even  momentarily,  will  not  impress  a  new  fairness 
upon  the  features,  neither  on  them  only,  but  on  the  whole 
body,  both  the  intelligence  and  the  moral  faculties  have  op- 
eration, for  even  all  the  movem.ent  and  gestures,  however 
slight,  are  different  in  their  modes  according  to  the  mind 
that  governs  them,  and  on  the  gentleness  and  decision  of 
just  feeling  there  follows  a  grace  of  action,  and  through  con- 
•  tinuance  of  this  a  grace  of  form,  which  by  no  discipline  may 
be  taught  or  attained. 

The  third  point  to  be  considered  with  respect  to  the  cor- 
poreal expression  of  mental  character  is,  that  there  is  a  cer- 
tain period  of  the  soul  culture  when  it  begins  to  interfere 
§  7  How  the  ^^^^  some  of  the  characters  of  typical  beauty 
soul  culture  in-  belons^insT  to  the  bodily  frame,  the  stirrins:  of 

terferes  harm-  -        i,  .         i  i        ni  i  i 

fully  with  the  the  intellect  wearing  down  the  flesh,  and  the 
bodily  Ideal.  moral  enthusiasm  burning  its  way  out  to  heaven, 
through  the  emaciation  of  the  earthen  vessel ;  and  that  there 
is,  in  this  indication  of  subduing  of  the  mortal  by  the  immor- 
tal part,  an  ideal  glory  of  perhaps  a  purer  and  higher  range 
than  that  of  the  more  perfect  material  form.  We  conceive, 
I  think,  more  nobly  of  the  weak  presence  of  Paul,  than  of 
the  fair  and  ruddy  countenance  of  Daniel. 

Now,  be  it  observed  that  in  our  consideration  of  these 
„  Q        .        three  directions  of  mental  influence,  we  have 

§  8.    The  mcon-  ^  ' 

sistency  among  several  times  been  compelled  to  stop  short  of 

the  effects  of  the  .  \  ^ 

mental  virtues  on  definite  conclusions  owing  to  the  apparent  in- 

the  form.  .  <»  •  n  t   i  - 

consistency  oi  certain  excellences  and  beauties 
to  which  they  tend,  as,  first,  of  different  kinds  of  intellect  with 


308 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY, 


each  other  ;  and  secondly,  of  the  moral  faculties  with  the  in- 
tellectual, (and  if  we  had  separately  examined  the  moral 
emotions,  we  should  have  found  certain  inconsistencies  among 
them  also,)  and  again  of  the  soul  culture  generally  with  the 
bodily  perfections.  Such  inconsistencies  we  should  find  in 
the  perfections  of  no  other  animal.  The  strength  or  swift- 
ness of  the  dog  are  not  inconsistent  with  his  sagacity,  nor  is 
bodily  labor  in  the  ant  or  bee  destructive  of  their  acuteness 
of  instinct.  And  this  peculiarity  of  relation  among  the  per- 
fections of  man  is  no  result  of  his  fall  or  sinfulness,  but  an 
evidence  of  his  greater  nobility,  and  of  the  goodness  of  God 
towards  him.  For  the  individuals  of  each  race  of  lower  ani- 
§9.  Is  a  sign  of  mals,  being  not  intended  to  hold  among  each 
pcSl'towTrds^the  Other  thosc  relations  of  charity  which  are  the 
privilege  of  humanity,  are  not  adapted  to  each 
other's  assistance,  admiration,  or  support,  by  differences  of 
power  and  function.  But  the  love  of  the  human  race  is  in- 
creased by  their  individual  differences,  and  the  unity  of  the 
creature,  as  before  we  saw  of  all  unity,  made  perfect  by  each 
having  something  to  bestow  and  to  receive,  bound  to  the  rest 
by  a  thousand  various  necessities  and  various  gratitudes,  hu- 
mility in  each  rejoicing  to  admire  in  his  fellow  that  which 
he  finds  not  in  himself,  and  each  being  in  some  respect  the 
complement  of  his  race.  Therefore,  in  investigating  the  signs 
of  the  ideal  or  perfect  type  of  humanity,  we  must  not  pre- 
sume on  the  singleness  of  that  type,  and  yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  we  must  cautiously  distinguish  between  differences 
conceivably  existing  in  a  perfect  state,  and  differences  result- 
ing from  immediate  and  present  operation  of  the  Adamite 
curse.  Of  which  the  former  are  differences  that  bind,  and 
the  latter  that  separate.  For  although  we  can  suppose  the 
ideal  or  perfect  human  heart,  and  the  perfect  human  intelli- 
gence, equally  adapted  to  receive  every  right  sensation  and 
pursue  every  order  of  truth,  yet  as  it  is  appointed  for  some  to 
be  in  authority  and  others  in  obedience,  some  in  solitary  func- 
tions and  others  in  relative  ones,  some  to  receive  and  others 
to  give,  some  to  teach  and  some  to  discover  ;  and  as  all  these 
varieties  of  office  are  not  only  conceivable  as  existing  in  a 


IN  MAN. 


309 


perfect  state  of  man,  but  seem  almost  to  be  implied  by  it,  and 
at  any  rate  cannot  be  done  away  with  but  by  a  total  change 
of  his  constitution  and  dependencies,  of  which  the  imagi- 
nation can  take  no  hold  ;  so  there  are  habits  and  capacities 
of  expression  induced  by  these  various  offices,  w^hich  admit  of 
§10.  Consequent  Hiany  Separate  idcals  of  equal  perfection,  accord- 
d  fff e n  c'e'^of  ^^^^  functions  of  the  creatures,  so  that 

there  is  an  ideal  of  authority,  of  judgment,  of 
affection,  of  reason,  and  of  faith  ;  neither  can  any  combina- 
tion of  these  ideals  be  attained,  not  that  the  just  judge  is  to 
be  supposed  incapable  of  affection,  nor  the  king  incapable 
of  obedience,  but  as  it  is  impossible  that  any  essence  short  of 
the  Divine  should  at  the  same  instant  be  equally  receptive  of 
all  emotions,  those  emotions  which,  by  right  and  order,  have 
the  most  usual  victory,  both  leave  the  stamp  of  their  habit- 
ual presence  on  the  body,  and  render  the  individual  more 
and  more  susceptible  of  them  in  proportion  to  the  frequency 
of  their  prevalent  recurrence  ;  added  to  which  causes  of  dis- 
tinctive character  are  to  be  taken  into  account  the  differences 
of  age  and  sex,  which,  though  seemingly  of  more  finite  influ- 
ence, cannot  be  banished  from  any  human  conception.  David, 
ruddy  and  of  a  fair  countenance,  with  the  brook  stone  of  de- 
liverance in  his  hand,  is  not  more  ideal  than  David  leaning  on 
the  old  age  of  Barzillai,  returning  chastened  to  his  kingly 
home.  And  they  who  are  as  the  angels  of  God  in  heaven, 
yet  cannot  be  conceived  as  so  assimilated  that  their  different 
experiences  and  affections  upon  earth  shall  then  be  forgotten 
and  effectless  :  the  child  taken  early  to  his  place  cannot  be 
imagined  to  wear  there  such  a  body,  nor  to  have  such  thoughts, 
as  the  glorified  apostle  who  has  finished  his  course  and  kept 
the  faith  on  earth.  And  so  whatever  perfections  and  likeness 
of  love  we  may  attribute  to  either  the  tried  or  the  crowned 
creatures,  there  is  the  difference  of  the  stars  in  glory  among 
them  yet  ;  differences  of  original  gifts,  though  not  of  occu- 
pying till  their  Lord  come,  different  dispensations  of  trial  and 
of  trust,  of  sorrow  and  support,  both  in  their  own  inward, 
variable  hearts,  and  in  their  positions  of  exposure  or  of  peace, 
of  the  gourd  shadow  and  the  smiting  sun,  of  calling  at  heat 


310 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


of  day  or  eleventh  hour,  of  the  house  unroofed  by  faith,  and 
the  clouds  opened  by  revelation  :  differences  in  warning,  in 
mercies,  in  sicknesses,  in  signs,  in  time  of  calling  to  account  ; 
like  only  they  all  are  by  that  which  is  not  of  them,  but  the 
gift  of  God's  unchangeable  mercy.  "  I  will  give  unto  this 
last  even  as  unto  thee." 

Hence,  then,  be  it  observed,  that  what  we  must  deter- 
minedly banish  from  the  human  form  and  countenance  in  our 
seeking  of  its  ideal,  is  not  everything  which  can  be  ultimately 
§  11.  The  effects  traced  to  the  Adamite  fall  for  its  cause,  but 
cLseare'^o'bedfs-  ^^^J  immediate  operation  and  presence  of 
SgS'ofUsimr-  the  degrading  power  or  sin.  For  there  is  not 
diate  activity.  ^j^y  part  of  our  feeling  of  nature,  nor  can  there 
be  through  eternity,  which  shall  not  be  in  some  way  influ- 
enced and  affected  by  the  fall,  and  that  not  in  any  way  of  deg- 
radation, for  the  renewing  in  the  divinity  of  Christ  is  a 
nobler  condition  than  ever  that  of  Paradise,  and  yet  through- 
out eternity  it  must  imply  and  refer  to  the  disobedience,  and 
the  corrupt  state  of  sin  and  death,  and  the  suffering  of  Christ 
himself,  which  can  we  conceive  of  any  redeemed  soul  as  for 
an  instant  forgetting,  or  as  remembering  without  sorrow  ? 
Neither  are  the  alternations  of  joy  and  such  sorrow  as  by  us 
is  inconceivable,  being  only  as  it  were  a  softness  and  silence 
in  the  pulse  of  an  infinite  felicity,  inconsistent  with  the  state 
even  of  the  unfallen,  for  the  angels  who  rejoice  over  repent- 
ance cannot  but  feel  an  uncomprehended  pain  as  they  try 
and  try  again  in  vain,  whether  they  may  not  warm  hard 
hearts  with  the  brooding  of  their  kind  wings.  So  that  we 
§  12.  Which  lat-  have  not  to  banish  from  the  ideal  countenance 
banished^^  from  evidences  of  sorrow,  nor  of  past  suffering, 
ideal  form.  j^or  cvcu  of  past  and  conquered  sin,  but  only 
the  immediate  operation  of  any  evil,  or  the  immediate  cold- 
ness and  hoUowness  of  any  good  emotion.  And  hence  in 
that  contest  before  noted,  between  the  body  and  the  soul, 
we  may  often  have  to  indicate  the  body  as  far  conquered 
and  outworn,  and  with  signs  of  hard  struggle  and  bitterpain 
upon  it,  and  yet  without  ever  diminishing  the  purity  of  its 
ideal  ;  and  because  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  human  im- 


m  MAN, 


311 


agination  to  reason  out  or  conceive  the  countless  modifica- 
tions of  experience,  suffering,  and  separated  feeling,  which 
have  modelled  and  written  their  indelible  images  in  various 
order  upon  every  human  countenance,  so  no  right  ideal  can 
be  reached  by  any  combination  of  feature  nor  by  any  mould- 
ing and  melting  of  individual  beauties  together,  and  still  less 
without  model  or  example  conceived  ;  but  there  is  a  perfect 
ideal  to  be  wrought  out  of  every  face  around  us  that  has  on 
its  forehead  the  writing  and  the  seal  of  the  angel  ascending 
from  the  East,*  by  the  earnest  study  and  penetration  of  the 
written  history  thereupon,  and  the  banishing  of  the  blots  and 
stains,  wherein  we  still  see  in  all  that  is  human,  the  visible 
and  instant  operation  of  unconquered  sin. 

Now  I  see  not  how  any  of  the  steps  of  the  argument  by 
which  we  have  arrived  at  this  conclusion  can  be  evaded,  and 
yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  state  anything  more  directly  op- 
§13.  Ideal  form  posite  to  the  usual  teaching  and  practice  of  ar- 
teined  *by^^por-  ^^^ts.  It  is  usual  to  hear  portraiture  opposed  to 
traiture.  ^]^^  pursuit  of  ideality,  and  yet  we  find  that  no 

face  can  be  ideal  which  is  not  a  portrait.  Of  this  general 
principle,  however,  there  are  certain  modifications  which  we 
must  presently  state  ;  let  us  first,  however,  pursue  it  a  little 
farther,  and  deduce  its  practical  consequences. 

These  are,  first,  that  the  pursuit  of  idealism  in  humanity, 
as  of  idealism  in  lower  nature,  can  be  successful  only  when 
followed  through  the  most  constant,  patient,  and  humble 
rendering  of  actual  models,  accompanied  with  that  earnest 
mental  as  well  as  ocular  study  of  each,  which  can  interpret 
all  that  is  written  upon  it,  disentangle  the  hieroglyphics  of 
its  sacred  history,  rend  the  veil  of  the  bodily  temple,  and 
rightly  measure  the  relations  of  good  and  evil  contend- 
ing within  it  for  mastery,f  that  everything  done  without  such 
study  must  be  shallow  and  contemptible,  that  generalization 
or  combination  of  individual  character  will  end  less  in  the 
mending  than  the  losing  of  it,  and,  except  in  certain  instances 
of  which  we  shall  presently  take  note,  is  valueless  and  vapid, 

*  Rev.  vii.  2.  f  Compare  Part.  II.  Sec.  L  Chap.  III.  §  6. 


312 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


even  if  it  escape  being  painful  from  its  want  of  truth,  which 
in  these  days  it  often  in  some  measure  does,  for  we  indeed 
find  faces  about  us  w^ith  want  enough  of  life  or  wholesome 
§14.  Instances  character  in  them  to  justify  anything.  And  that 
eHf^the  ^ideai  habit  of  the  old  and  great  painters  of  introduc- 
Masters.  jj^g  portrait  into  all  their  highest  works,  I  look 

to,  not  as  error  in  them,  but  as  the  very  source  and  root 
of  their  superiority  in  all  things,  for  they  were  too  great  and 
too  humble  not  to  see  in  every  face  about  them  that  which 
was  above  them,  and  which  no  fancies  of  theirs  could  match 
nor  take  place  of,  wherefore  we  find  the  custom  of  portrait- 
ure constant  with  them,  both  portraiture  of  study  and  for 
purposes  of  analysis,  as  with  Leonardo  ;  and  actual,  pro- 
fessed, serviceable,  hardworking  portraiture  of  the  men  of 
their  time,  as  with  Raffaelle,  and  Titian,  and  Tintoret  ;  and 
portraiture  of  Love,  as  with  Fra  Bartolomeo  of  Savonarola, 
and  Simon  Memmi  of  Petrarch,  and  Giotto  of  Dante,  and 
Gentile  Bellini  of  a  beloved  imagination  of  Dandolo,  and  with 
Raffaelle  constantly  ;  and  portraiture  in  real  downright  ne- 
cessity of  models,  even  in  their  noblest  works,  as  was  the 
practice  of  Ghirlandajo  perpetually,  and  Masaccio  and  Raf- 
faelle,  and  manifestly  of  the  men  of  highest  and  purest  ideal 
purpose,  as  again,  Giotto,  and  in  his  characteristic  monkish 
heads,  Angelico,  and  John  Bellini,  (note  especially  the  St. 
Christopher  at  the  side  of  that  mighty  picture  of  St.  Jerome, 
at  Venice,)  and  so  of  all  :  which  practice  had  indeed  a  peril- 
ous tendency  for  men  of  debased  mind,  who  used  models 
such  as  and  where  they  ought  not,  as  Lippi  and  the  cor- 
rupted Raffaelle  ;  and  is  found  often  at  exceeding  disadvan- 
tage among  men  who  looked  not  at  their  models  with  intel- 
lectual or  loving  penetration,  but  took  the  outside  of  them, 
or  perhaps  took  the  evil  and  left  the  good,  as  Titian  in  that 
Academy  study  at  Venice  which  is  called  a  St.  John,  and  all 
workers  whatsoever  that  I  know  of,  after  Raffaelle's  time,  as 
Guido  and  the  Caracci,  and  such  others  :  but  it  is  neverthe- 
less the  necessary  and  sterling  basis  of  all  ideal  art,  neither 
has  any  great  man  ever  been  able  to  do  without  it,  nor 
dreamed  of  doing  without  it  even  to  the  close  of  his  days. 


IN  MAN, 


313 


And  therefore  there  is  not  any  greater  sign  of  the  utter 
want  of  vitality  and  hopefulness  in  the  schools  of  the  present 
day  than  that  unhappy  prettiness  and  sameness  under  which 
§15.  Evil  results  they  mask,  or  rather  for  which  they  barter,  in 
tic^iT'Lton  their  lentile  thirst,  all  the  birthright  and  power 
times.  q£  nature,  which  prettiness,  wrought  out  and 

spun  fine  in  the  study,  out  of  empty  heads,  till  it  hardly  bet- 
ters the  blocks  on  which  dresses  and  hair  are  tried  in  bar- 
bers' windows  and  milliners'  books,  cannot  but  be  revolting  to 
any  man  who  has  his  eyes,  even  in  a  measure,  open  to  the 
divinity  of  the  immortal  seal  on  the  common  features  that  he 
meets  in  the  highways  and  hedges  hourly  and  momentarily, 
outreaching  all  efforts  of  conception  as  all  power  of  realiza- 
tion, were  it  Raffaelle's  three  times  over,  even  when  the  glory 
of  the  wedding  garment  is  not  there. 

So  far,  then,  of  the  use  of  the  model  and  the  preciousness 
of  it  in  all  art,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  But  the  use 
of  the  model  is  not  all.  It  must  be  used  in  a  certain  way, 
§  16.  The  right  ^his  choice  of  right  or  wrong  way  all 

use  of  the  model.  Q^J.  e^jg  are  at  stake,  for  the  art,  which  is  of  no 
power  without  the  model,  is  of  pernicious  and  evil  power  if 
the  model  be  wrongly  used.  What  the  right  use  is,  has  been 
at  least  established,  if  not  fully  explained,  in  the  argument 
by  which  we  arrived  at  the  general  principle. 

The  right  ideal  is  to  be  reached,  we  have  asserted,  only 
by  the  banishment  of  the  immediate  signs  of  sin  upon  the 
countenance  and  body.  How,  therefore,  are  the  signs  of  sin 
to  be  known  and  separated  ? 

No  intellectual  operation  is  here  of  any  avail.  There  is 
not  any  reasoning  by  which  the  evidences  of  depravity  are 
to  be  traced  in  movements  of  muscle  or  forms  of  feature  ; 
there  is  not  any  knowledge,  nor  experience,  nor  diligence  of 
comparison  that  can  be  of  avail.  Here,  as  throughout  the 
operation  of  the  theoretic  faculty,  the  perception  is  alto- 
§17  Ideal  form  ^^^^^^  moral,  an  instinctive  love  and  clinging 
to  be  reached  to  the  lines  of  lio^ht.    Nothinp*  but  love  can  read 

only  by  love.  T  •         i  i 

the  letters,  nothing  but  sympathy  catch  the 
sound,  there  is  no  pure  passion  that  can  be  understood  or 


314: 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY, 


painted  except  by  pureness  of  heart  ;  the  foul  or  blunt  feel- 
ing will  see  itself  in  everything,  and  set  down  blasphemies  ; 
it  will  see  Beelzebub  in  the  casting  out  of  devils,  it  will  find 
its  god  of  flies  in  every  alabaster  box  of  precious  ointment. 
Tiie  indignation  of  zeal  towards  God  (nemesis)  it  will  take 
for  anger  against  man,  faith  and  veneration  it  will  miss  of, 
as  not  comprehending,  charity  it  will  turn  into  lust,  compas- 
sion into  pride,  every  virtue  it  will  go  over  against,  like 
Shimei,  casting  dust.  But  the  right  Christian  mind  will  in 
like  manner  find  its  own  image  wherever  it  exists,  it  will  seek 
for  what  it  loves,  and  draw  it  out  of  all  dens  and  caves,  and 
it  will  believe  in  its  being,  often  when  it  cannot  see  it,  and  al- 
ways turn  away  its  eyes  from  beholding  vanity  ;  and  so  it  will 
lie  lovingly  over  all  the  faults  and  rough  places  of  the  human 
heart,  as  the  snow  from  heaven  does  over  the  hard,  and  black, 
and  broken  mountain  rocks,  following  their  forms  truly,  and 
yet  catching  light  for  them  to  make  them  fair,  and  that  must 
be  a  steep  and  unkindly  crag  indeed  which  it  cannot  cover. 

Now  of  this  spirit  there  will  always  be  little  enough  in  the 
world,  and  it  cannot  be  given  nor  taught  by  men,  and  so  it 
is  of  little  use  to  insist  on  it  farther,  only  I  may  note  some 
§  18  Practical  P^^^^^^^^  points  respecting  the  ideal  treatment 
principles  deduc-  of  human  form,  which  may  be  of  use  in  these 
thoughtless  days.  There  is  not  the  face,  I  have 
said,  which  the  painter  may  not  make  ideal  if  he  choose,  but 
that  subtile  feeling  which  shall  find  out  all  of  good  that  there 
is  in  any  given  countenance  is  not,  except  by  concern  for 
other  things  than  art,  to  be  acquired.  But  certain  broad  in- 
dications of  evil  there  are  which  the  bluntest  feeling  may 
perceive,  and  which  the  habit  of  distinguishing  and  casting 
out  of  would  both  ennoble  the  schools  of  art,  and  lead  in 
time  to  greater  acuteness  of  perception  with  respect  to  the 
less  explicable  characters  of  soul  beauty. 

Those  signs  of  evil  which  are  commonly  most  manifest  on 
§  19.  Expressions  the  human  features  are  roughly  divisible  into 
?woon<ie^1harl  ^hcse  four  kinds,  the  signs  of  pride,  of  scusual- 
acter.  1st.  Pride,  j^y^  q£  ie^,T^  and  of  cruclty.  Any  one  of  which 
will  destroy  the  ideal  character  of  the  countenance  and  h^^dy. 


IN  MAK 


315 


Now  of  these,  the  first,  pride,  is  perhaps  the  most  destruc- 
tive of  all  the  four,  seeing  it  is  the  undermost  and  original 
story  of  all  sin  ;  and  it  is  base  also  from  the  necessary  fool- 
ishness of  it,  because  at  its  best,  that  is  when  grounded  on  a 
just  estimation  of  our  own  elevation  or  superiority  above  cer- 
tain others,  it  cannot  but  imply  that  our  eyes  look  downward 
only,  and  have  never  been  raised  above  our  own  measure,  for 
there  is  not  the  man  so  lofty  in  his  standing  nor  capacity  but 
he  must  be  humble  in  thinking  of  the  cloud  habitation  and 
far  sight  of  the  angelic  intelligences  above  him,  and  in  per- 
ceiving what  infinity  there  is  of  things  he  cannot  know  nor 
even  reach  unto,  as  it  stands  compared  with  that  little  body 
of  things  he  can  reach,  and  of  which  nevertheless  he  can  alto- 
gether understand  not  one  ;  not  to  speak  of  that  wicked  and 
fond  attributing  of  such  excellency  as  he  may  have  to  him- 
self, and  thinking  of  it  as  his  own  getting,  which  is  the  real 
essence  and  criminality  of  pride,  nor  of  those  viler  forms  of 
it,  founded  on  false  estimation  of  things  beneath  us  and  ir- 
rational contemning  of  them  :  but  taken  at  its  best,  it  is  still 
base  to  that  degree  that  there  is  no  grandeur  of  feature  which 
it  cannot  destroy  and  make  despicable,  so  that  the  first  step 
towards  the  ennoblinoj-  of  any  face  is  the  riddinor 

§  20.  Portraiture    .       „  .  .  ^  •  i      •         i  , 

ancient  and  mod-  it  oi  its  Vanity  ;  to  which  aim  there  cannot  be 
anything  more  contrary  than  that  principle  of 
portraiture  which  prevails  with  us  in  these  days,  whose  end 
seems  to  be  the  expression  of  vanity  throughout,  in  face  and 
in  all  circumstances  of  accompaniment,  tending  constantly 
to  insolence  of  attitude,  and  levity  and  haughtiness  of  ex- 
pression, and  worked  out  farther  in  mean  accompaniments 
of  worldly  splendor  and  possession,  together  with  hints  or 
proclamations  of  what  the  person  has  done  or  supposes  him- 
self to  have  done,  which,  if  known,  it  is  gratuitous  in  the 
portrait  to  exhibit,  and  if  unknown,  it  is  insolent  in  the  por- 
trait to  proclaim  ;  whence  has  arisen  such  a  school  of  por- 
traiture as  must  make  the  people  of  the  nineteenth  century 
the  shame  of  their  descendants,  and  the  butt  of  all  time.  To 
which  practices  are  to  be  opposed  both  the  glorious  severity 
of  Holbein,  and  the  mighty  and  simple  modesty  of  Raffaelle, 


316 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


Titian,  Giorgione,  and  Tintoret,  with  whom  armor  does  not 
constitute  the  warrior,  neither  silk  the  dame.  And  from 
what  feeling  the  dignity  of  that  portraiture  arose  is  best 
traceable  at  Venice,  where  we  find  their  victorious  doges 
painted  neither  in  the  toil  of  battle  nor  the  triumph  of 
return,  nor  set  forth  with  thrones  and  curtains  of  state,  but 
kneeling  always  crownless,  and  returning  thanks  to  God  for 
his  help,  or  as  priests,  interceding  for  the  nation  in  its  afflic- 
tion. Which  feeling  and  its  results  have  been  so  well  traced 
out  by  Rio,*  that  I  need  not  speak  of  it  farther. 

That  second  destroyer  of  ideal  form,  the  appearance  of 
sensual  character,  though  not  less  fatal  in  its  operation  on 
§  21.  Secondly,  modern  art,  is  more  difficult  to  trace,  owing  to 
Sensuality.  '  -^g  peculiar  subtlcty.  For  it  is  not  possible  to 
say  by  what  minute  differences  the  right  conception  of  the 
human  form  is  separated  from  that  which  is  luscious  and 
foul  :  for  the  root  of  all  is  in  the  love  and  seeking  of  the 
painter,  who,  if  of  impure  and  feeble  mind,  will  cover  all 
that  he  touches  with  clay  staining,  as  Bandinelli  puts  a  foul 
scent  of  human  flesh  about  his  marble  Christ,  and  as  many 
whom  I  will  not  here  name,  among  moderns  ;  but  if  of  mighty 
mind  or  pure,  may  pass  through  all  places  of  foulness,  and 
none  will  stay  upon  him,  as  Michael  Angelo,  or  he  will  bap- 
tize all  things  and  wash  them  with  pure  water,  as  our  own 
Stothard.  Now,  so  far  as  this  power  is  dependent  on  the 
seeking  of  the  artist,  and  is  only  to  be  seen  in  the  work  of 
good  and  spiritually-minded  men,  it  is  vain  to  attempt  to 
teach  or  illustrate  it,  neither  is  it  here  the  place  to  take  note 
of  the  way  in  which  it  belongs  to  the  representation  of  the 
mental  image  of  things,  instead  of  things  themselves,  of 
which  we  are  to  speak  in  treating  of  the  imagination  ;  but 
thus  much  mav  here  be  noted  of  broad,  practi- 

§  22.    How  con-  •      .    i      "  i  •  p   n     i         •  • 

nected  with  im   cal  principle,  that  the  purity  of  flesh  painting" 

purity  of  color.       -,      ^        •  -J       Ul  ' 

depends  in  very  considerable  measure  on  the  in- 
tensity and  warmth  of  its  color.  For  if  it  be  opaque,  and 
clay  cold,  and  colorless,  and  devoid  of  all  the  radiance  and 


*  De  la  Poesie  Chretienne.    Forme  de  I'Art.   Chap.  VIII. 


IN  MAN. 


317 


value  of  flesh,  the  lines  of  its  true  beauty,  being  severe  and 
firm,  will  become  so  hard  in  the  loss  of  the  glow  and  grada- 
tion by  which  nature  illustrates  them,  that  the  painter  will 
be  compelled  to  sacrifice  them  for  a  luscious  fulness  and 
roundness,  in  order  to  give  the  conception  of  flesh  ;  which, 
being  done,  destroys  ideality  of  form  as  of  color,  and  gives 
all  over  to  lasciviousness  of  surface  ;  showing  also  that  the 
painter  sought  for  this,  and  this  only,  since  otherwise  he  had 
not  taken  a  subject  in  which  he  knew  himself  compelled  to 
surrender  all  sources  of  dignity.  Whereas,  right  splendor 
of  color  both  bears  out  a  nobler  severity  of  form,  and  is  in 
itself  purifying  and  cleansing,  like  fire,  furnishing  also  to 
the  painter  an  excuse  for  the  choice  of  his  subject,  seeing 
that  he  may  be  supposed  as  not  having  painted  it  but  in  the 
admiration  of  its  abstract  glory  of  color  and  form,  and  with 
no  unworthy  seekinor.    ;But  the  mere  power  of 

§23.   And  pre-  ^  /   i       •  i  m,  • 

vented  by  its  periect  and  glowing  color  will  in  some  sort  re- 
spiendor.  deem  even  a  debased  tendency  of  mind  itself, 

as  eminently  the  case  with  Titian,  who,  though  of  little  feel- 
ing, and  often  treating  base  subjects,  or  elevated  subjects 
basely,  as  in  the  disgusting  Magdalen  of  the  Pitti  palace, 
and  that  of  the  Barberigo  at  Venice,  yet  redeems  all  by  his 
glory  of  hue,  so  that  he  cannot  paint  altogether  coarsely  ; 
and  with  Giorgione,  who  had  nobler  and  more  serious  intel- 
lect, the  sense  of  nudity  is  utterly  lost,  and  there  is  no  need 
nor  desire  of  concealment  any  more,  but  his  naked  figures 
move  among  the  trees  like  fiery  pillars,  and  lie  on  the  grass 
like  flakes  of  sunshine.*  With  the  religious  painters  on  the 
§24.  Or  by  sever-  Other  hand,  such  nudity  as  they  were  compelled 
ity  of  drawing,  treat  is  redeemed  as  much  by  severity  of  form 
and  hardness  of  line  as  by  color,  so  that  generally  their 
draped  figures  are  preferable,  as  in  the  Francia  of  our  own 
gallery.  But  these,  with  Michael  Angelo  and  the  Venetians, 
except  Titian,  form  a  great  group,  pure  in  sight  and  aim,  be- 
tween which  and  all  other  schools  by  which  the  nude  has 
been  treated,  there  is  a  gulf  fixed,  and  all  the  rest,  compared 


*  As  in  the  noble  Louvre  picture. 


318 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


with  them,  seem  striving  how  best  to  illustrate  that  of 
Spenser. 

Of  all  God's  works,  which  doe  this  worlde  adorn, 
There  is  no  one  more  faire,  and  excellent 
Than  is  man's  body  both  for  power  and  forme 
Whiles  it  is  kept  in  sober  government. 
But  none  than  it  more  foul  and  indecent 
Distempered  through  misrule  and  passions  bace." 

Of  these  last,  however,  with  whom  ideality  is  lost,  there  are 
some  worthier  than  others,  according  to  that  measure  of  color 
they  reach,  and  power  they  possess,  whence  much  may  be 
forsfiven  to  Rubens,  (as  to  our  own  Etty.)  less, 

§25.     Degrees  of  •    i    ^  •         i  ,  ^  '  ' 

descent  in  this  re-  as  1  think,  to  Uorrcggio,  who  With  less  apparent 

spect :     Rubens,         j        •  -i      .  v  '       /?   •  t 

Correggio,  and  and  evident  coarseness  has  more  or  inherent 
sensuality,  wrought  out  with  attractive  and  lus- 
cious refinement,  and  that  alike  in  all  subjects,  as  in  the  Ma- 
donna of  the  Incoronazione,  over  the  high  altar  of  San  Gio- 
vanni at  Parma,  of  which  the  head  and  upper  portion  of  the 
figure,  now  preserved  in  the  library,  might  serve  as  a  model 
of  attitude  and  expression  to  a  ballet  figurante:  *  and  again 
in  the  lascivious  St.  Catherine  of  the  Giorno,  and  in  the  Cha- 
rioted Diana,  (both  at  Parma,)  not  to  name  any  of  his  works 
of  aim  more  definitely  evil.  Beneath  which  again  will  fall 
the  works  devoid  alike  of  art  and  decency,  as  that  Susannah 
of  Guido,  in  our  own  gallery,  and  so  we  may  descend  to  the 
absolute  clay  of  the  moderns,  only  noticing  in  all  how  much 
of  what  is  evil  and  base  in  subject  or  tendency,  is  redeemed 
by  what  is  pure  and  right  in  hue,  so  that  I  do  not  assert  that 
the  purpose  and  object  of  many  of  the  grander  painters  of  the 
nude,  as  Titian  for  instance,  was  always  elevated,  but  only 
§  26.  And  modem  ^^^^  ^\^o  Cannot  paint  the  lamp  of  fire 
within  the  earthen  pitcher,  must  take  other 
weapons  in  our  left  hands.  And  it  is  to  be  noted,  also,  that 
in  climates  where  the  body  can  be  more  openly  and  frequently 
visited  by  sun  and  weather,  the  nude  both  comes  to  be  re- 

*  The  Madonna  turns  her  back  to  Christ,  and  bends  her  head  over  her 
shoulder  to  receive  the  crown,  the  arms  being  folded  with  studied  grace 
over  the  bosom. 


IN  MAN, 


319 


garded  in  a  way  more  grand  and  pure,  as  necessarily  awak- 
ening no  ideas  of  base  kind,  (as  pre-eminently  with  the 
Greeks,)  and  also  from  that  exposure  receives  a  firmness  and 
sunny  elasticity  very  different  from  the  silky  softness  of  the 
clothed  nations  of  the  north,  where  every  model  necessarily 
looks  as  if  accidentally  undressed  ;  and  hence  from  the  very 
fear  and  doubt  with  which  we  approach  the  nude,  it  becomes 
expressive  of  evil,  and  for  that  daring  frankness  of  the  old 
men,  which  seldom  missed  of  human  grandeur,  even  when  it 
failed  of  holy  feeling,  we  have  substituted  a  mean,  carpeted, 
gauze-veiled,  mincing  sensuality  of  curls  and  crisping  pins, 
out  of  which  I  believe  nothing  can  come  but  moral  enervation 
and  mental  paralysis. 

Respecting  those  two  other  vices  of  the  human  face,  the 
expressions  of  fear  and  ferocity,  there  is  less  to  be  noted,  as 
they  only  occasionally  enter  into  the  conception  of  character  ; 

only  it  is  most  necessary  to  make  careful  dis- 

§  27.  Thirdly,  fe-      .    ^  .  i  •  /. 

rocity  and  fear,  tmction  between  the  conception  oi  power,  de- 

The  latter  how  to      ^  .  •     ,      •  .  .        •  n 

be  distinguished  structiveness,  or  majesty,  in  matter,  mtiuence,  or 
from  awe.  agent,  and  the  actual  fear  of  any  of  these,  for 

it  is  possible  to  conceive  of  terribleness,  without  being  in  a 
position  obnoxious  to  the  danger  of  it,  and  so  without  fear, 
and  the  feeling  arising  from  this  contemplation  of  dreadful- 
ness,  ourselves  being  in  safety,  as  of  a  stormy  sea  from  the 
shore,  is  properly  termed  awe,  and  is  a  most  noble  passion  ; 
whereas  fear,  mortal  and  extreme,  may  be  felt  respecting 
things  ignoble,  as  the  falling  from  a  window,  and  without  any 
conception  of  terribleness  or  majesty  in  the  thing,  or  the  ac- 
cident dreaded  ;  and  even  when  fear  is  felt  respecting  things 
sublime,  as  thunder,  or  storm  of  battle,  yet  the  tendency  of 
it  is  to  destroy  all  power  of  contemplation  of  their  majesty, 
and  to  freeze  and  shrink  all  the  intellect  into  a  shaking  heap 
of  clay,  for  absolute  acute  fear  is  of  the  same  unworthiness 
and  contempt  from  whatever  source  it  arise,  and  degrades  the 
mind  and  the  outward  bearing  of  the  body  alike,  even  though 
it  be  amons:  hail  of  heaven  and  fire  runnins^ 

§28.     Holy  fear,      i  ^  a 

how  distinct  from  along  the  ground.  And  so  among  the  children 
human  terror.  God,  while  there  is  always  that  fearful  and 


320 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


bowed  apprehension  of  his  majesty,  and  that  sacred  dread  of 
all  offence  to  him,  which  is  called  the  fear  of  God,  yet  of  real 
and  essential  fear  there  is  not  any  but  clinging  of  confidence  to 
him,  as  their  Rock,  Fortress,  and  Deliverer,  and  perfect  love, 
and  casting  out  of  fear,  so  that  it  is  not  possible  that  while 
the  mind  is  rightly  bent  on  him,  there  should  be  dread  of  any- 
thing either  earthly  or  supernatural,  and  the  more  dreadful 
seems  the  height  of  his  majesty,  the  less  fear  they  feel  that 
dwell  in  the  shadow  of  it,  ("  Of  whom  shall  I  be  afraid  ?  ")  so 
that  they  are  as  David  was,  devoted  to  his  fear  ;  whereas,  on 
the  other  hand,  those  who,  if  they  may  help  it,  never  conceive 
of  God,  but  thrust  away  all  thought  and  memory  of  him,  and 
in  his  real  terribleness  and  omnipresence  fear  him  not  nor 
know  him,  yet  are  of  real,  acute,  piercing,  and  ignoble  fear 
haunted  for  evermore  ;  fear  inconceiving  and  desperate  that 
calls  to  the  rocks,  and  hides  in  the  dust ;  and  hence  the  pe- 
culiar baseness  of  the  expression  of  terror,  a  baseness  attrib- 
uted to  it  in  all  times,  and  among  all  nations,  as  of  a  passion 
§  29.  Ferocity  is  atheistical,  brutal,  and  profane.  So  also,  it  is 
withfear  itfun-  ^Iways  joined  with  ferocity,  which  is  of  all  pas- 
pardonabieness.  sions  the  Icast  humau  ;  for  of  sensual  desires 
there  is  license  to  men,  as  necessity  ;  and  of  vanity  there  is 
intellectual  cause,  so  that  when  seen  in  a  brute  it  is  pleasant 
and  a  sign  of  good  wit  ;  and  of  fear  there  is  at  times  neces- 
sity and  excuse,  as  being  allowed  for  prevention  of  harm  ; 
but  of  ferocity  there  is  no  excuse  nor  palliation,  but  it  is  pure 
essence  of  tiger  and  demon,  and  it  casts  on  the  human  face 
the  paleness  alike  of  the  horse  of  Death,  and  the  ashes  of 
hell. 

Wherefore,  of  all  subjects  that  can  be  admitted  to  sight, 
the  expressions  of  fear  and  ferocity  are  the  most  foul  and 
detestable,  and  so  there  is  in  them  I  know  not  what  sym- 
§  30  Such  ex  P^^^^^^^  attractiveness  for  minds  cowardly  and 
pressions  how  basc,  as  the  vulsTar  of  most  nations,  and  foras- 

8011  ght  by  paint-  i         ,i  -i  i       j   i  t_ 

ers  powerless  and  much  as  they  are  easily  rendered  by  men  who 
impious.  render  nothing  else,  they  are  often  trusted 

in  by  the  herd  of  painters  incapable  and  profane,  as  in  that 
monstrous  abortion  of  the  first  room  of  the  Louvre,  called  the 


IN  MAN, 


321 


Deluge,  whose  su'bject  is  pure,  acute,  mortal  fear  ;  and  so 
generally  the  senseless  horrors  of  the  modern  French  schools, 
spawn  of  the  guillotine  :  also  there  is  not  a  greater  test  of 
grandeur  or  meanness  of  mind  than  the  expressions  it  will 
seek  for  and  develop  in  the  features  and  forms  of  men  in 
fierce  strife,  whether  determination  and  devotion,  and  all  the 
other  attributes  of  that  unselfishness  which  constitutes  hero- 
ism, as  in  the  warrior  of  Agasias  ;  and  distress  not  agitated 
nor  unworthy,  though  mortal,  as  in  the  Dying  Gladiator,  or 
brutal  ferocity  and  butchered  agony,  of  which  the  lowest  and 
least  palliated  examples  are  those  battles  of  Salvator  Rosa, 
which  none  but  a  man,  base-born  and  thief-bred,  could  have 
dwelt  upon  for  an  instant  without  sickening,  of  which  I  will 
only  name  that  example  in  the  Pitti  palace,  wherein  the  chief 
figure  in  the  foreground  is  a  man  with  his  arm  cut  off  at  the 
shoulder,  run  through  the  other  hand  into  the  breast  with  a 
lance.*  And  manifold  instances  of  the  same  feeling  are  to 
be  found  in  the  repainting  of  the  various  representations  of 
the  Inferno,  so  common  through  Italy,  more  especially  that 
of  Orcagna's  in  the  Campo  Santo,  wherein  the  few  figures 
near  the  top  that  yet  remain  untouched  are  grand  in  their 
severe  drawing  and  expressions  of  enduring  despair,  while 
those  below,  repainted  by  Solazzino,  depend  for  their  expres- 
siveness upon  torrents  of  blood  ;  so  in  the  Inferno  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  and  of  the  Arena  chapel,  not  to  speak  of  the 
horrible  images  of  the  Passion,  by  which  vulgar  Romanism 
has  always  striven  to  excite  the  languid  sympathies  of  its  un- 
taught flocks.  Of  which  foulness  let  us  reason  no  farther, 
the  very  image  and  memory  of  them  being  pollution,  only 
noticing  this,  that  there  has  always  been  a  morbid  tendency 
in  Romanism  towards  the  contemplation  of  bodily  pain,  ow- 
ing to  the  attribution  of  saving  power  to  it,  which,  like  every 
other  moral  error,  has  been  of  fatal  effect  in  art,  leaving  not 

*  Compare  Michelet,  (Du  Pretre,  de  la  Femme,  de  la  Famille,)  Chap. 
III.  note.  He  uses  language  too  violent  to  be  quoted  ;  but  excuses  Sal- 
vator by  reference  to  the  savage  character  of  the  Thirty  Years*  War. 
That  this  excuse  has  no  validity  may  be  proved  by  comparing  the  paint* 
er's  treatment  of  other  subjects.  See  Sec.  11.  Chap.  III.  ^  19,  note. 
Vol.  II.— 21 


322 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


altogether  without  the  stain  and  blame  of  it,  even  the  high- 
est of  the  pure  Romanist  painters  ;  as  Fra  Angelico,  for  in- 
stance, who,  in  his  Passion  subjects,  always  insists  weakly  on 
the  bodily  torture,  and  is  unsparing  of  blood  ;  and  Giotto, 
though  his  treatment  is  usually  grander,  as  in  that  Crucifixion 
over  the  door  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Mark's,  where  the  blood  is 
hardly  actual,  but  issues  from  the  feet  in  a  typical  and  con- 
ventional form,  and  becomes  a  crimson  cord  which  is  twined 
strangely  beneath  about  a  skull  ;  only  that  which  these  holy 
men  did  to  enhance,  even  though  in  their  means  mistaken, 
the  impression  and  power  of  the  sufferings  of  Christ,  or  of 
his  saints,  is  always  in  a  measure  noble,  and  to  be  distin- 
guished with  all  reverence  from  the  abominations  of  the  ir- 
religious painters  following,  as  of  Camillo  Procaccini,  in  one 
of  his  martyrdoms  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Brera,  at  Milan,  and 
other  such,  whose  names  may  be  w^ell  spared  to  the  reader. 

These,  then,  are  the  four  passions  whose  presence  in  any 
degree  on  the  human  face  is  degradation.  But  of  all  passion 
it  is  to  be  generally  observed,  that  it  becomes  ignoble  either 
§31  Of  passion  when  entertained  respecting  unworthy  objccts, 
generally.  ^^d  therefore  shallow  or  unjustifiable,  or  when 

of  impious  violence,  and  so  destructive  of  human  dignity. 
Thus  grief  is  noble  or  the  reverse,  according  to  the  dignity 
and  worthiness  of  the  object  lamented,  and  the  grandeur  of 
the  mind  enduring  it.  The  sorrow  of  mortified  vanity  or 
avarice  is  simply  disgusting,  even  that  of  bereaved  affection  . 
may  be  base  if  selfish  and  unrestrained.  All  grief  that  con- 
vulses the  features  is  ignoble,  because  it  is  commonly  shallow 
and  certainly  temporary,  as  in  children,  though  in  the  shock 
and  shiver  of  a  strong  man's  features  under  sudden  and  vio- 
lent grief  there  may  be  something  of  sublime.  The  grief  of 
Guercino's  Hagar,  in  the  Brera  gallery  at  Milan,  is  partly 
despicable,  partly  disgusting,  partly  ridiculous  ;  it  is  not  the 
grief  of  the  injured  Egyptian,  driven  forth  into  the  desert 
with  the  destiny  of  a  nation  in  her  heart,  but  of  a  servant  of 
§  32.  It  is  never  work,  turned  away  for  stealing  tea  and  sugar. 
Mbfted^-aMeast  Oommou  painters  forget  that  passion  is  not  ab- 
on  the  face.       jsolutcly  and  in  itself  great  or  violent,  but  only 


IN  MAN. 


323 


in  proportion  to  the  weakness  of  the  mind  it  has  to  deal  with; 
and  that  in  exaggerating  its  outward  signs,  they  are  not  ex- 
alting the  passion,  but  evaporating  the  hero.*  They  think 
too  much  of  passions  as  always  the  same  in  their  nature,  for- 
getting that  the  love  of  Achilles  is  different  from  the  love  of 
Paris,  and  of  Alcestis  from  that  of  Laodamia.  The  use  and 
value  of  passion  is  not  as  a  subject  in  contemplation  in  it- 
self, but  as  it  breaks  up  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  of 
the  human  mind,  or  displays  its  mightiness  and  ribbed  maj- 
esty, as  mountains  are  seen  in  their  stability  best  among  the 
coil  of  clouds  ;  whence,  in  fine,  I  think  it  is  to  be  held  that 
all  passion  which  attains  overwhelming  power,  so  that  it  is 
not  as  resisting,  but  as  conquered,  that  the  creature  is  con- 
templated, is  unfit  for  high  art,  and  destructive  of  the  ideal 
character  of  the  countenance  :  and  in  this  respect,  I  cannot 
but  hold  Raffaelle  to  have  erred  in  his  endeavor  to  express 
passion  of  such  acuteness  in  the  human  face  ;  as  in  the  frag- 
ment of  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  in  our  own  gallery, 
(wherein,  repainted  though  it  be,  I  suppose  the  purpose  of 
the  master  is  yet  to  be  understood,)  for  if  such  subjects  are 
to  be  represented  at  all,  their  entire  expression  may  be  given 
without  degrading  the  face,  as  we  shall  presently  see  done 
with  unspeakable  power  by  Tintoret,f  and  I  think  that  all 
subjects  of  the  kind,  all  human  misery,  slaughter,  famine, 
plague,  peril,  and  crime,  are  better  in  the  main  avoided,  as  of 
unprofitable  and  hardening  influence,  unless  so  far  as  out  of 
the  suffering,  hinted  rather  than  expressed,  we  may  raise'into 
nobler  relief  the  eternal  enduring  of  fortitude  and  affection, 
of  mercy  and  self-devotion,  or  when,  as  by  the  threshing-floor 
of  Ornan,  and  by  the  cave  of  Lazarus,  the  angel  of  the  Lord 
is  to  be  seen  in  the  chastisement,  and  his  love  to  be  mani- 
fested to  the  despair  of  men. 

Thus,  then,  we  have  in  some  sort  enumerated  those  evil 
signs  which  are  most  necessary  to  be  shunned  in  the  seeking 

*  * '  The  fire,  that  mounts  the  liquor,  till  it  run  o'er 
In  seemiDg  to  augment  it,  wastes  it." 

Henry  VIII. 

t  Sec.  II.  Chap.  III.  g  22. 


324 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


of  ideal  beauty,*  though  it  is  not  the  knowledge  of  them, 
but  the  dread  and  hatred  of  them,  which  will  effectually  aid 
§33.  Recapituia-  painter  ;  as  on  the  other  hand  it  is  not  by 
mere  admission  of  the  loveliness  of  good  and 
holy  expression  that  its  subtile  characters  are  to  be  traced. 
Raffaelle  himself,  questioned  on  this  subject,  made  doubtful 
answer  ;  he  probably  could  not  trace  through  what  early 
teaching,  or  by  what  dies  of  emotion  the  image  had  been 
sealed  upon  his  heart.  Our  own  Bacon,  who  well  saw  the 
impossibility  of  reaching  it  by  the  combination  of  many  sep- 
arate beauties,  yet  explains  not  the  nature  of  that  kind  of 
felicity "  to  which  he  attributes  success.  I  suppose  those 
who  have  conceived  and  wrought  the  loveliest  things,  have 
done  so  by  no  theorizing,  but  in  simple  labor  of  love,  and 
could  not,  if  put  to  a  bar  of  rationalism,  defend  all  points 
of  what  they  had  done,  but  painted  it  in  their  own  delight, 
and  to  the  delight  of  all  besides,  only  always  with  that  re- 
spect of  conscience  and  "  fear  of  swerving  from  that  which 
is  rig-ht,  which  maketh  dilio^ent  observers  of  circumstances 
the  loose  regard  whereof  is  the  nurse  of  vulgar  folly,  no  less 
than  3fblomon's  attention  thereunto  was  of  natural  further- 
ances the  most  effectual  to  make  him  eminent  above  others, 
for  he  gave  good  heed,  and  pierced  everything  to  the  very 
ground."  f 

With  which  good  heed,  and  watching  of  the  instants  when 
men  feel  warmly  and  rightly,  as  the  Indians  do  for  the  dia- 
mond in  their  washing  of  sand,  and  that  with  the  desire 
and  hope  of  finding  true  good  in  men,  and  not  with  the 
ready  vanity  that  sets  itself  to  fiction  instantly,  and  carries 
its  potter's  wheel  about  with  it  always,  (off  which  there  will 
come  only  clay  vessels  of  regular  shape  after  all,)  instead  of 

*  Let  it  be  observed  that  it  is  always  of  beauty,  not  of  human  char- 
acter in  its  lower  and  criminal  modifications,  that  we  have  been  speak- 
ing. That  variety  of  character,  therefore,  which  we  have  affirmed  to 
be  necessary,  is  the  variety  of  Giotto  and  Angelico,  not  of  Hogarth, 
Works  concerned  with  the  exhibition  of  general  character,  are  to  be 
spoken  of  in  the  consideration  of  Ideas  of  Relation. 

f  Hooker,  Book  V.  Chap.  I.  g  2. 


THE  TIlEOIiETIG  FACULTY. 


825 


the  pure  mirror  that  can  show  the  seraph  standing  by  the 
human  body — standing  as  signal  to  the  heavenly  land  ;  * 
with  this  heed  and  this  charity,  there  are  none  of  us  that 
may  not  bring  down  that  lamp  upon  his  path  of  which  Spen- 
ser sang  : — 

That  beauty  is  not,  as  fond  men  misdeem 
An  outward  show  of  things,  that  only  seem  ; 
Bub  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  light  proceeds,  which  kindleth  lover's  fire, 
Shall  never  be  extinguished  nor  decay. 
But  when  the  vital  spirit^,  do  expire, 
Unto  her  native  planet  shall  retire. 
For  it  is  heavenly  born  and  cannot  die, 
Being  a  parcel  of  the  purest  sky." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 

Of  the  sources  of  beauty  open  to  us  in  the  visible  world, 
we  have  now  obtained  a  view  which,  though  most  feeble  in 
its  grasp  and  scanty  in  its  detail,  is  yet  general  in  its  range. 
§1.  There  are  no  Of  no  other  sources  than  these  visible  can  we, 
Amotion  of  belu^-  ©^^rt  in  our  present  condition  of  exist- 

ty  more    than  ^ncc,  conceive.    For  what  revelations  have  been 

those    round  m  " 

things  visible.  made  to  humanity  inspired,  or  caught  up  to 
heaven  of  things  to  the  heavenly  region  belonging,  have 
been  either  by  unspeakable  words  which  it  is  not  lawful  for 
a  man  to  utter,  or  else  by  their  very  nature  incommunicable, 
except  in  types  and  shadows  ;  and  ineffable  by  words  be- 

*  "  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And  by  the  holy  rood, 
A  man  all  lif?ht,  a  seraph  man 
By  every  corse  there  stood. 
This  seraph  band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ; 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land. 
Each  one  a  lovely  light. " 

Ancient  Mariner. 


326        GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING 


longing  to  earth,  for  of  things  different  from  the  visible, 
words  appropriated  to  the  visible  can  convey  no  image. 
How  different  from  earthly  gold  that  clear  pavement  of  the 
city  might  have  seemed  to  the  eyes  of  St.  John,  we  of  unre- 
ceived  sight  cannot  know  ;  neither  of  that  strange  jasper  and 
sardine  can  we  conceive  the  likeness  which  he  assumed  that 
sat  on  the  throne  above  the  crystal  sea  ;  neither  what  seem- 
ing that  was  of  slaying  that  the  Root  of  David  bore  in  the 
midst  of  the  elders  ;  neither  what  change  it  was  upon  the 
form  of  the  fourth  of  them  that  walked  in  the  furnace  of 
Dura,  that  even  the  wrath  of  idolatry  knew  for  the  likeness 
of  the  Son  of  God.  The  knowing  that  is  here  permitted  to 
us  is  either  of  things  outward  only,  as  in  those  it  is  whose 
eyes  faith  never  opened,  or  else  of  -that  dark  part  that  her 
glass  shows  feebly,  of  things  supernatural,  that  gleaming  of 
the  Divine  form  among  the  mortal  crowd,  which  all  may 
catch  if  they  will  climb  the  sycamore  and  wait  ;  nor  how 
much  of  God's  abiding  at  the  house  may  be  granted  to  those 
that  so  seek,  and  how  much  more  may  be  opened  to  them  in 
the  breaking  of  bread,  cannot  be  said  ;  but  of  that  only  we  can 
reason  which  is  in  a  measure  revealed  to  all,  of  that  which  is 
by  constancy  and  purity  of  affection  to  be  found  in  the  things 
§  2.  What  imper-  and  the  beings  around  us  upon  earth.  Now, 

fection  exists  in  ^^  j.\  •  i  i         x  !_ 

visible  things,  among  all  those  things  whose  beauty  we  have 
im^inLtion*^re^'  hitherto  examined,  there  has  been  a  measure  of 
movable.  imperfection.    Either  inferiority  of  kind,  as  the 

beauty  of  the  lower  animals,  or  resulting  from  degradation, 
as  in  man  himself  ;  and  although  in  considering  the  beauty 
of  human  form,  we  arrived  at  some  conception  of  restoration, 
yet  we  found  that  even  the  restoration  must  be  in  some  re- 
spect imperfect,  as  incapable  of  embracing  all  qualities,  moral 
and  intellectual,  at  once,  neither  to  be  freed  from  all  signs 
of  former  evil  done  or  suffered.  Consummate  beauty,  there- 
fore, is  not  to  be  found  on  earth,  though  often  such  intense 
measure  of  it  as  shall  drown  all  capacity  of  receiving  ;  neither 
is  it  to  be  respecting  humanity  legitimately  conceived.  But 
by  certain  operations  of  the  imagination  upon  ideas  of  beauty 
received  frotu  things  around  us,  it  is  possible  to  conceive  re- 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY.  327 

specting  superhuman  creatures  (of  that  which  is  more  tharv 
creature,  no  creature  ever  conceived)  a  beauty  in  some  sort 
§3.  Which  how-  greater  than  we  see.  Of  this  beauty,  however, 
ourpre?ent%on-  impossible  to  determine  anything  until  we 
elusions.  have  traced  the  imaginative  operations  to  which 

it  owes  its  being,  of  which  operations  this  much  may  be  pre- " 
maturely  said,  that  they  are  not  creative,  that  no  new  ideas 
are  elicited  by  them,  and  that  their  whole  function  is  only  a 
certain  dealing  with,  concentrating  or  mode  of  regarding  the 
impressions  received  from  external  things,  that  therefore,  in 
the  beauty  to  which  they  will  conduct  us,  there  will  be  found 
no  new  element,  but  only  a  peculiar  combination  or  phase 
of  those  elements  that  we  now  know,  and  that  therefore  we 
may  at  present  draw  all  the  conclusions  with  respect  to  the 
rank  of  the  theoretic  faculty,  which  the  knowledge  of  its 
subject  matter  can  warrant. 

We  have  seen  that  this  subject  matter  is  referable  to  four 
general  heads.  It  is  either  the  record  of  conscience,  printed 
§4.  The  four  in  things  external,  or  it  is  a  symbolizing  of  Di- 
wMch^the^pieas^  viue  attributes  in  matter,  or  it  is  the  felicity  of 
drri^ed'Te^aii  Hviug  things,  or  the  perfect  fulfilment  of  their 
divine.  duties  and  functions.    In  all  cases  it  is  some- 

thing Divine,  either  the  approving  voice  of  God,  the  glorious 
symbol  of  him,  the  evidence  of  his  kind  presence,  or  the 
obedience  to  his  will  by  him  induced  and  supported. 

All  these  subjects  of  contemplation  are  such  as  we  may 
suppose  will  remain  sources  of  pleasure  to  the  perfected 
spirit  throughout  eternity.  Divine  in  their  nature  they  are 
addressed  to  the  immortal  part  of  men. 

There  remain,  however,  two  points  to  be  noticed  before  I 
§5.  whatobjec-  ^an  hope  that  this  conclusion  will  be  frankly  ac- 
madeto'h^con-  ^^ptcd  by  the  reader.  If  it  be  the  moral  part 
elusion.  Qf  which  beauty  addresses  itself,  how  does 

it  happen,  it  will  be  asked,  that  it  is  ever  found  in  the  works 
of  impious  men,  and  how  is  it  possible  for  such  to  desire  or 
conceive  it  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  how  does  it  happen  that  men  in  high 
state  of  moral  culture  are  often  insensible  to  the  influence 


328        GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING 


of  material  beauty,  and  insist  feebly  upon  it  as  an  instru- 
ment of  soul  culture. 

These  two  objections  I  shall  endeavor  briefly  to  answer, 
not  that  they  can  be  satisfactorily  treated  without  that  de- 
tailed examination  of  the  whole  body  of  great  works  of  art, 
on  which  I  purpose  to  enter  in  the  following  volume.  For 
the  right  determination  of  these  two  questions  is  indeed  the 
whole  end  and  aim  of  my  labor,  (and  if  it  could  be  here  accom- 
plished, I  should  bestow^  no  effort  farther,)  namely,  the  proving 
that  no  supreme  power  of  art  can  be  attained  by  impious 
men  ;  and  that  the  neglect  of  art,  as  an  interpreter  of  divine 
things,  has  been  of  evil  consequence  to  the  Christian  world. 

At  present,  however,  I  would  only  meet  such  objections 
as  must  immediately  arise  in  the  reader's  mind. 

And  first,  it  will  be  remembered  that  I  have,  throughout 
the  examination  of  typical  beauty,  asserted  its  instinctive 
power,  the  moral  meaning  of  it  being  only  discoverable  by 
§6.  Typical  faithful  thought.  Now  this  instinctive  sense  of 
Setic^i^pu^r^  it  ^^aries  in  intensity  among  men,  being  given, 
sued.  Instances.  ^j^^  hearing  ear  of  music,  to  some  more  than 
to  others  :  and  if  those  to  whom  it  is  given  in  large  meas- 
ure be  unfortunately  men  of  impious  or  unreflecting  spirit, 
it  is  very  possible  that  the  perceptions  of  beauty  should  be 
by  them  cultivated  on  principles  merely  aesthetic,  and  so  lose 
their  hallowing  power  ;  for  though  the  good  seed  in  them  is 
altogether  divine,  yet,  there  being  no  blessing  in  the  spring- 
ing thereof,  it  brings  forth  wild  grapes  in  the  end.  And  yet 
these  wild  grapes  are  well  discernible,  like  the  deadly  gourds 
of  Gilgal.  There  is  in  all  works  of  such  men  a  taint  and 
stain,  and  jarring  discord,  blacker  and  louder  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  moral  deficiency,  of  which  the  best  proof  and 
measure  is  to  be  found  in  their  treatment  of  the  human  form, 
(since  in  landscape  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  introduce  defi- 
nite expression  of  evil,)  of  which  the  highest  beauty  has  been 
attained  only  once,  and  then  by  no  system  taught  painter, 
but  by  a  most  holy  Dominican  monk  of  Fiesole  ;  and  be- 
neath him  all  stoop  lower  and  lower  in  proportion  to  their 
inferior  sanctity,  though  with  more  or  less  attainment  of  that 


THE  THE  GEE  TIC  FACULTY, 


329 


which  is  noble,  according  to  their  intellectual  power  and 
earnestness,  as  Raffaelle  in  his  St.  Cecilia,  (a  mere  study  of 
a  passionate,  dark-eyed,  large  formed  Italian  model,)  and 
even  Perugino,r  in  that  there  is  about  his  noblest  faces  a 
shortcoming,  indefinable  ;  an  absence  of  the  full  out-pouring 
of  the  sacred  spirit  that  there  is  in  Angelico  ;  traceable,  I 
doubt  not,  to  some  deficiencies  and  avaricious  flaws  of  his 
heart,  whose  consequences  in  his  conduct  were  such  as  to 
give  Yasari  hope  that  his  lies  might  stick  to  him  (for  the 
contradiction  of  which  in  the  main,  if  there  be  not  contradic- 
tion enough  in  every  line  that  the  hand  of  Perugino  drew, 
compare  Rio,  de  la  Poesie  Chretienne,  and  note  also  what 
Rio  has  singularly  missed  observing,  that  Perugino,  in  his 
portrait  of  himself  in  the  Florence  gallery,  has  put  a  scroll 
into  the  hand,  with  the  words  Timete  Deum,"  thus  surely 
indicating  that  which  he  considered  his  duty  and  message  :) 
and  so  all  other  even  of  the  sacred  painters,  not  to  speak  of 
the  lower  body  of  men  in  whom,  on  the  one  hand,  there  is 
marked  sensuality  and  impurity  in  all  that  they  seek  of 
beauty,  as  in  Correggio  and  Guido,  or,  on  the  other,  a  want 
in  measure  of  the  sense  of  beauty  itself,  as  in  Rubens  and 
„    .  ^     Titian,  showing:  itself  in  the  adoption  of  coarse 

§  7.    How  inter-  ?  &  r  ^ 

rupted  by  false  types  of  feature  and  form  ;  sometimes  also  (of 
which  I  could  find  instances  in  modern  times,) 
in  a  want  of  evidence  of  delight  in  what  they  do  ;  so  that, 
after  they  have  rendered  some  passage  of  exceeding  beauty, 
they  will  suffer  some  discordant  point  to  interfere  with  it, 
and  it  will  not  hurt  them,  as  if  they  had  no  pleasure  in  that 
which  was  best,  but  had  done  it  in  inspiration  that  was  not 
profitable  to  them,  as  deaf  men  might  touch  an  instrument 
with  a  feeling  in  their  heart,  which  yet  returns  not  outwardly 
upon  them,  and  so  know  not  when  they  play  false  :  and 
sometimes  by  total  want  of  choice,  for  there  is  a  choice  of 
love  in  all  rightly  tempered  men,  not  that  ignorant  and  inso- 
lent choice  which  rejects  half  nature  as  empty  of  the  right, 
but  that  pure  choice  that  fetches  the  right  out  of  every- 
thing ;  and  where  this  is  wanting,  we  may  see  men  walking 
up  and  down  in  dry  places,  finding  no  rest,  ever  and  anon 


330        GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  BESPECTING 


doing  something  noble,  and  yet  not  following  it  up,  but- 
dwelling  the  next  instant  on  something  impure  or  profitless 
with  the  same  intensity  and  yet  impatience,  so  that  they  are 
ever  wondered  at  and  never  sympathized  with,  and  while 
they  dazzle  all,  they  lead  none  ;  and  then,  beneath  these 
again,  we  find  others  on  whose  works  there  are  definite  signs 
of  evil  mind,  ill-repressed,  and  then  inability  to  avoid,  and 
at  last  perpetual  seeking  for  and  feeding  upon  horror  and 
ugliness,  and  filthiness  of  sin,  as  eminently  in  Salvator  and 
Caravaggio,  and  the  lower  Dutch  schools,  only  in  these  last 
less  painfully  as  they  lose  the  villanous  in  the  brutal,  and  the 
horror  of  crime  in  its  idiocy. 

But  secondly,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  it  is  neither  by  us  unas- 
certainable  what  moments  of  pure  feeling  or  aspiration  may 
occur  to  men  of  minds  apparently  cold  and  lost,  nor  by  us  to 
§8  Greatness  and  pronounced  through  what  instruments,  and 
truth  are  some-  in  what  strausTelv  occurrcut  voices,  God  may 

times     bythe  . 

Deity  sustained  choose  to  communicate  good  to  men.  It  seems 

and     spoken     in  ,  i       /»     i    ^    •  ,  -i  n 

and  through  evil  to  me  that  much  oi  what  IS  great,  and  to  all 
men  beneficial,  has  been  wrought  by  those 
who  neither  intended  nor  knew  the  good  they  did,  and  that 
many  mighty  harmonies  have  been  discoursed  by  instru- 
ments that  had  been  dumb  or  discordant,  but  that  God 
knew  their  stops.  The  Spirit  of  Prophecy  consisted  with 
the  avarice  of  Balaam,  and  the  disobedience  of  Saul.  Could 
we  spare  from  its  page  that  parable,  which  he  said,  who  saw 
the  vision  of  the  Almighty,  falling  into  a  trance,  but  hav- 
ing his  eyes  open,  though  we  know  that  the  sword  of  his 
punishment  was  then  sharp  in  its  sheath  beneath  him  in  the 
plains  of  Moab  ?  or  shall  we  not  lament  with  David  over  the 
shield  cast  away  on  the  Gilboa  mountains,  of  him  to  whom 
God  gave  another  heart  that  day  when  he  turned  his  back  to 
go  from  Samuel  ?  It  is  not  our  part  to  look  hardly,  nor  to 
look  always,  to  the  character  or  the  deeds  of  men,  but  to 
accept  from  all  of  them,  and  to  hold  fast  that  which  we  can 
prove  good,  and  feel  to  be  ordained  for  us.  We  know  that 
whatever  good  there  is  in  them  is  itself  divine,  and  wherever 
we  see  the  virtue  of  ardent  labor  and  self-surrendering  to 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY, 


331 


a  single  purpose,  wherever  we  find  constant  reference  made 
to  the  written  scripture  of  natural  beauty,  this  at  least  we 
know  is  great  and  good,  this  we  know  is  not  granted  by  the 
counsel  of  God,  without  purpose,  nor  maintained  without  re- 
sult :  Their  interpretation  we  may  accept,  into  their  labor 
we  may  enter,  but  they  themselves  must  look  to  it,  if  what 
they  do  has  no  intent  of  good,  nor  any  reference  to  the 
Giver  of  all  gifts.  Selfish  in  their  industry,  unchastened  in 
their  wills,  ungrateful  for  the  Spirit  that  is  upon  them, 
they  may  yet  be  helmed  by  that  Spirit  whithersoever  the 
Governor  listeth  ;  involuntary  instruments  they  may  become 
of  others'  good  ;  unwillingly  they  may  bless  Israel,  doubt- 
ingly  discomfit  Amalek,  but  shortcoming  there  will  be  of 
their  glory,  and  sure  of  their  punishment.  « 

I  believe  I  shall  be  able,  incidentally,  in  succeeding  in- 
vestigations, to  prove  this  shortcoming,  and  to  examine  the 
sources  of  it,  not  absoMtely  indeed,  (seeing  that  all  reason- 
ing on  the  characters  of  men  must  be  treacherous,  our  knowl- 
edge on  this  head  being  as  corrupt  as  it  is  scanty,  while  even 
in  living  with  them  it  is  impossible  to  trace  the  working,  or 
estimate  the  errors  of  great  and  self-secreted  minds,)  but  at 
least  enough  to  establish  the  general  principle  upon  such 
grounds  of  fact  as  may  satisfy  those  who  demand  the  practi- 
cal proof  (often  in  a  measure  impossible)  of  things  which  can 
^  9  The  second  ^^^^^^7  ^e  doubted  in  their  rational  conse- 
objection   arising  quencc.    At  present,  it  would  be  useless  to 

from  the  coldness  ,  , 

of  Christian  men  enter  on  an  examination  for  which  we  have  no 

to  external  beauty.  tip 

materials  ;  and  i  proceed,  tnereiore,  to  notice 
that  other  and  opposite  error  of  Christian  men  in  thinking 
that  there  is  little  use  or  value  in  the  o'peration  of  the 
theoretic  faculty,  not  that  I  at  present  either  feel  myself 
capable,  or  that  this  is  the  place  for  the  discussion  of  that 
vast  question  of  the  operation  of  taste  (as  it  is  called)  on  the 
minds  of  men,  and  the  national  value  of  its  teaching,  but  I 
wish  shortly  to  reply  to  that  objection  which  might  be  urged 
to  the  real  moral  dignity  of  the  faculty,  that  many  Christian 
men  seem  to  be  in  themselves  without  it,  and  even  to  dis- 
countenance it  in  others. 


332        GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING 


It  has  been  said  by  Schiller,  in  his  letters  on  aesthetic  cult- 
ure, that  the  sense  of  beauty  never  farthered  the  performance 
of  a  single  duty. 

Although  this  gross  and  inconceivable  falsity  will  hardly 
be  accepted  by  any  one  in  so  many  terms,  seeing  that  there 
are  few  so  utterly  lost  but  that  they  receive,  and  know  that 
they  receive,  at  certain  moments,  strength  of  some  kind,  or 
rebuke  from  the  appealingsof  outward  things;  and  that  it  is 
not  possible  for  a  Christian  man  to  walk  across  so  much  as  a 
rood  of  the  natural  earth,  with  mind  unagitated  and  rightly 
poised,  without  receiving  strength  and  hope  from  some  stone, 
flower,  leaf,  or  sound,  nor  without  a  sense  of  a  dew  falling 
upon  him  out  of  the  sky  ;  though,  I  say,  this  falsity  is  not 
wholly  and  in  terms  admitted,  yet  it  seems  to  be  partly  and 
practically  so  in  much  of  the  doing  and  teaching  even  of  holy 
men,  who  in  the  recommending  of  the  love  of  God  to  us,  refer 
but  seldom  to  those  things  in  which  it*is  most  abundantly  and 
immediately  shown  ;  though  they  insist  much  on  his  giving 
of  bread,  and  raiment,  and  health,  (which  he  gives  to  all  in- 
ferior creatures,)  they  require  us  not  to  thank  him  for  that 
glory  of  his  works  which  he  has  permitted  us  alone  to  per- 
ceive :  they  tell  us  often  to  meditate  in  the  closet,  but  they 
send  us  not,  like  Isaac,  into  the  fields  at  even,  they  dwell  on 
the  duty  of  self-denial,  but  they  exhibit  not  the  duty  of  de- 
light. Now  there  are  reasons  for  this,  manifold,  in  the  toil 
^       ,    and  warfare  of  an  earnest  mind,  which,  in  its  ef- 

§10.  Reasons  for  ^  ^  '  ' 

this  coldness  in  forts  at  the  raisinsc  of  men  from  utter  loss  and 

the  anxieties  of       .  i        t     i  • 

the  world.  These  misery,  has  oftcn  but  little  time  or  disposition  to 
wrought  and  take  heed  of  anything  more  than  the  bare  life, 
criminal.  ^^^^  ^£  thosc  SO  occupied  it  is  not  for  us  to  judge, 

but  I  think,  that,  of  the  weaknesses,  distresses,  vanities, 
schisms,  and  sins,  which  often  even  in  the  holiest  men,  di- 
minish their  usefulness,  and  mar  their  happiness,  there  would 
be  fewer  if,  in  their  struggle  with  nature  fallen,  they  sought 
for  more  aid  from  nature  undestroyed.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  real  sources  of  bluntness  in  the  feelings  towards  the 
splendor  of  the  grass  and  glory  of  the  flower,  are  less  to  be 
found  in  ardor  of  occupation,  in  seriousness  of  compassion,  or 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


333 


heavenliness  of  desire,  than  in  the  turning  of  the  eye  at  in- 
tervals of  rest  too  selfishly  within  ;  the  want  of  power  to 
shake  off  the  anxieties  of  actual  and  near  interest,  and  to 
leave  results  in  God's  hands  ;  the  scorn  of  all  that  does  not 
seem  immediately  apt  for  our  purposes,  or  open  to  our  un- 
derstanding, and  perhaps  something  of  pride,  which  desires 
_      ^  rather  to  investisrate  than  to  feel.    1  believe  that 

§  11.    Evil  con-  ^ 

seque^nces  of  the  Toot  of  almost  every  schism  and  heresy  from 
which  the  Christian  church  has  ever  suffered, 
has  been  the  effort  of  men  to  earn,  rather  than  to  receive, 
their  salvation  ;  and  that  the  reason  that  preaching  is  so 
commonly  ineffectual  is,  that  it  calls  on  men  oftener  to 
work  for  God,^han  to  behold  God  working  for  them.  If,  for 
every  rebuke  that  we  utter  of  men's  vices,  we  put  forth  a  claim 
upon  their  hearts  ;  if  for  every  assertion  of  God's  demands 
from  them,  we  could  substitute  a  display  of  his  kindness  to 
them  ;  if  side  by  side  with  every  w^arning  of  death,  we  could 
exhibit  proofs  and  promises  of  immortality  ;  if,  in  fine,  in- 
stead of  assuming  the  being  of  an  awful  Deity,  which  men, 
though  they  cannot  and  dare  not  deny,  are  always  unwilling, 
sometimes  unable,  to  conceive,  we  were  to  show  them  a  near, 
visible,  inevitable,  but  all  beneficent  Deity,  whose  presence 
makes  the  earth  itself  a  heaven,  I  think  there  would  be  fewer 
§12  Theoriathe  ^^^^  children  sitting  in  the  market-place.  At 
service  of  Heav-  all  events,  whatever  may  be  the  inability  in  this 
present  life  to  mingle  the  full  enjoyment  of  the 
Divine  works  with  the  full  discharge  of  every  practical  duty, 
and  confessedly  in  many  cases  this  must  be,  let  us  not  attrib- 
ute the  inconsistency  to  any  indignity  of  the  faculty  of  con- 
templation, but  to  the  sin  and  the  suffering  of  the  fallen 
state,  and  the  change  of  order  from  the  keeping  of  the  gar- 
den to  the  tilling  of  the  ground.  We  cannot  say  how  far  it 
is  right  or  agreeable  with  God's  will,  while  men  are  perishing 
round  about  us,  while  grief,  and  pain,  and  wrath,  and  impiety, 
and  death,  and  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  are  working  wildly 
and  evermore,  and  the  cry  of  blood  going  up  to  heaven,  that 
any  of  us  should  take  hand  from  the  plough  ;  but  this  we 
know,  that  there  will  come  a  time  when  the  service  of  God 


334 


THE  TEEOBETIG  FACULTY. 


shall  be  the  beholding  of  him  ;  and  though  in  these  stormy 
seas,  where  we  are  now  driven  up  and  down,  his  Spirit  is 
dimly  seen  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  we  are  left  to  cast 
anchors  out  of  the  stern,  and  wish  for  the  day,  that  day  will 
come,  when,  with  the  evangelists  on  the  crystal  and  stable 
sea,  all  the  creatures  of  God  shall  be  full  of  eyes  within,  and 
there  shall  be  *^  no  more  curse,  but  his  servants  shall  serve 
him,  and  shall  see  his  face.'* 


OF  THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY, 


CHAPTER  L 

OF  THE  THREE  FORMS  OF  IMAGINATION. 

We  have  hitherto  been  exclusively  occupied  with  those 
§  1  A  partial  ex-  sourccs  of  pleasure  which  exist  in  tho  external 
tTe'watilfnl^  Creation,  and  which  in  any  faithful  copy  of  it 
to  be  attempted.     must  to  a  Certain  extent  exist  also. 

These  sources  of  beauty,  however,  are  not  presented  by  any 
very  great  work  of  art  in  a  form  of  pure  transcript.  They 
invariably  receive  the  reflection  of  the  mind  under  whose 
shadow  they  have  passed,  and  are  modified  or  colored  by  its 
image. 

This  modification  is  the  Work  of  Imagination. 

As,  in  the  course  of  our  succeeding  investigation,  we  shall 
be  called  upon  constantly  to  compare  sources  of  beauty  ex- 
isting in  nature  with  the  images  of  them  presented  by  the 
human  mind,  it  is  very  necessary  for  us  shortly  to  review  the 


OF  THE  THREE  FORMS  OF  IMAGINATION.  335 


conditions  and  limits  of  the  imaginative  faculty,  and  to  as- 
certain by  what  tests  we  may  distinguish  its  sane,  healthy, 
and  profitable  operation,  from  that  which  is  erratic,  diseased, 
and  dangerous. 

It  is  neither  desirable  nor  possible  here  to  examine  or  illus- 
trate in  full  the  essence  of  this  mighty  faculty.  Such  an  ex- 
amination would  require  a  review  of  the  whole  field  of  litera- 
ture, and  would  alone  demand  a  volume.  Our  present  task 
is  not  to  explain  or  exhibit  full  portraiture  of  this  function 
of  the  mind  in  all  its  relations,  but  only  to  obtain  some  cer- 
tain tests  by  which  we  may  determine  whether  it  be  very 
imagination  or  no,  and  unmask  all  impersonations  of  it,  and 
this  chiefly  with  respect  to  art,  for  in  literature  the  faculty 
takes  a  thousand  forms,  according  to  the  matter  it  has 
to  treat,  and  becomes  like  the  princess  of  the  Arabian  tale, 
sword,  eagle,  or  fire,  according  to  the  war  it  wages,  some- 
times piercing,  sometimes  soaring,  sometimes  illumining,  re- 
taining no  image  of  itself,  except  its  supernatural  power,  so 
that  I  shall  content  myself  with  tracing  that  particular  form 
of  it,  and  unveiling  those  imitations  of  it  only,  which  are  to 
be  found,  or  feared,  in  painting,  referring  to  other  creations 
of  mind  only  for  illustration. 

Unfortunately,  the  works  of  metaphysicians  will  afford  us 
in  this  most  interesting  inquiry  no  aid  whatsoever.  They 
who  are  constantly  endeavoring  to  fathom  and  explain  the 
D  o  mv,      1    *  essence  of  the  faculties  of  mind,  are  sure  in  the 

§  2.  The  works  of  ^  '  ^ 

the  metaphysicians  end  to  losc  sisrht  of  all  that  Cannot  be  explained, 

how  nugatory  with  ^  ■^    p  \    \         -i  ^ 

respect  to  this  (though  it  may  be  defined  and  lelt,)  and  be- 
facuity.  cause,  as  I  shall  presently  show,  the  essence  of 

the  imaginative  faculty  is  utterly  mysterious  and  inexplicable, 
and  to  be  recognized  in  its  results  only,  or  in  the  negative 
results  of  its  absence,  the  metaphysicians,  as  far  as  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  their  works,  miss  it  altogether,  and  never  reach 
higher  than  a  definition  of  fancy  by  a  false  name. 

What  I  understand  by  fancy  will  presently  appear,  not  that 
I  contend  for  nomenclature,  but  only  for  distinction  between 
two  mental  faculties,  by  whatever  name  they  be  called,  one 
the  source  of  all  that  is  great  in  the  poetic  arts  ;  the  other 


836      OF  THE  THREE  FORMS  OF  IMAGINATION 


merely  decorative  and  entertaining,  but  which  are  often  con- 
founded together,  and  which  have  so  much  in  common  as  to 
render  strict  definition  of  either  difficult. 

Dugald  Stewart's  meagre  definition  may  serve  us  for  a 
starting  point.  "Imagination,"  he  says,  "includes  concep- 
tion or  simple  apprehension,  which  enables  us  to  form  a  no- 
§  3.  The  defini-  tion  of  those  former  objects  of  perception  or  of 
art?  how'  inade^  knowledge,  out  of  which  we  are  to  make  a  selec- 
tion  ;  abstraction,  which  separates  the  selected 
materials  from  the  qualities  and  circumstances  which  are 
connected  with  them  in  nature  ;  and  judgment  or  taste, 
which  selects  the  materials  and  directs  their  combination. 
To  these  powers  we  may  add  that  particular  habit  of  associa- 
tion to  which  I  formerly  gave  the  name  of  fancy,  as  it  is  this 
which  presents  to  our  choice  all  the  different  materials  which 
are  subservient  to  the  efforts  of  imagination,  and  which  may 
therefore  be  considered  as  forming  the  ground-work  of 
poetical  genius." 

(By  fancy  in  this  passage,  we  find  on  referring  to  the 
chapter  treating  of  it,  that  nothing  more  is  meant  than  the 
rapid  occurrence  of  ideas  of  sense  to  the  mind.) 

Now,  in  this  definition,  the  very  point  and  purpose  of  all 
the  inquiry  is  missed.  We  are  told  that  judgment  or  taste 
"  directs  the  combination."  In  order  that  anything  may  be 
directed,  an  end  must  be  previously  determined:  What  is  the 
faculty  that  determines  this  end  ?  and  of  what  frame  and 
make,  how  boned  and  fleshed,  how  conceived  or  seen,  is  the 
end  itself  ?  Bare  judgment,  or  taste,  cannot  approve  of 
what  has  no  existence  ;  and  yet  by  Dugald  Stewart's  defini- 
tion we  are  left  to  their  catering  among  a  host  of  concep- 
tions, to  produce  a  combination  which,  as  they  work  for, 
they  must  see  and  approve  before  it  exists.  This  power  of 
prophecy  is  the  very  essence  of  the  whole  matter,  and  it  is 
just  that  inexplicable  part  which  the  metaphysician  misses. 

As  might  be  expected  from  his  misunderstanding  of  the 
faculty,  he  has  given  an  instance  entirely  nugatory.*  It 

*  He  continues  thus,  *^  To  illustrate  these  observations,  let  us  con- 
sider the  steps  by  which  Milton  must  have  proceeded,  in  creating  his 


OF  TEE  THREE  FORMS  OF  IMAGINATION.  337 


would  be  difficult  to  find  in  Milton  a  passage  in  which  less 
power  of  imagination  was  shown,  than  the  description  of 
§4.  This  instance  Eden,  if,  as  I  suppose,  this  be  the  passage  meant, 
nugatory.  beginning  of  the  fourth  book,  in  which 

I  can  find  three  expressions  only  in  which  this  power  is 
shown,  the  burnished  with  golden  rind,  hung  amiable  "  of 
the  Hesperian  fruit,  the  lays  forth  her  purple  grape  "  of 
the  vine  and  the  ''fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crowned,"  of 
the  lake,  and  these  are  not  what  Stewart  meant,  but  only 
that  accumulation  of  bowers,  groves,  lawns,  and  hillocks, 
§  5.  Various  in-  which  is  not  imagination  at  all,  but  composi- 
stances.  tion,  and  that  of  the  commonest  kind.  Hence, 

if  we  take  any  passage  in  which  there  is  real  imagination, 
we  shall  find  Stewart's  hypothesis  not  only  inefficient  and 
obscure,  but  utterly  inapplicable. 
Take  one  or  two  at  random. 

On  the  other  side, 

Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war." 

(Note  that  the  word  incensed  is  to  be  taken  in  its  literal 
and  material  sense,  set  on  fire.)  What  taste  or  judgment  was 
it  that  directed  this  combination?  or  is  there  nothing  more 
than  taste  or  judgment  here  ? 

imaginary  garden  of  Eden.  When  he  first  proposed  to  himself  that 
subject  of  description,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  a  variety  of  the 
most  striking  scenes  which  he  had  seen,  crowded  into  his  mind.  The 
association  of  ideas  suggested  them  and  the  power  of  conception 
placed  each  of  them  before  him  with  all  its  beauties  and  imperfections. 
In  every  natural  scene,  if  we  destine  it  for  any  particular  purpose, 
there  are  defects  and  redundancies,  which  art  may  sometimes,  but 
cannot  always  correct.  But  the  power  of  imagination  is  unlimited. 
She  can  create  and  annihilate,  and  dispose  at  pleasure  her  woods,  her 
rocks,  and  her  rivers.  Milton,  accordingly,  would  not  copy  his  Eden 
from  any  one  scene,  but  would  select  from  each  the  features  which 
were  most  eminently  beautiful.  The  power  of  abstraction  enabled  him 
to  make  the  separation,  and  taste  directed  him  in  the  selection." 
Vol.  II.— 22 


338     OF  THE  THREE  FORMS  OF  IMAGINATION. 


"  Ten  paces  huge 
He  back  recoiled  ;  the  tenth  on  bended  knee 
His  massy  spear  upstaid,  as  if  on  earth 
Winds  under  ground,  or  waters  forcing  way 
Sidelong  had  pushed  a  mountain  from  his  seat 
Half -sunk  with  all  his  pines. 

Together  both  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a  field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 

Missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth  shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray^ 
Through  the  heavens'  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft  as  if  her  head  she  bowed 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud." 

It  is  evident  that  Stewart's  explanation  utterly  fails  in  all 
these  instances,  for  there  is  in  them  no  "  combination"  v^^hat- 
soever,  but  a  particular  mode  of  regarding  the  qualities  or 
appearances  of  a  single  thing,  illustrated  and  conveyed  to  us 
by  the  image  of  another  ;  and  the  act  of  imagination,  observe, 
is  not  the  selection  of  this  image,  but  the  mode  of  regarding 
the  object. 

But  the  metaphysician's  definition  fails  yet  more  utterly, 
when  we  look  at  the  imagination  neither  as  regarding,  nor 
combining,  but  as  penetrating. 

My  gracious  Silence,  Hail : 

Wouldst  thou  have  laughed,  had  I  come  coffiu'd  home 
That  weep'st  to  see  me  triumph.    Ah !  my  dear. 
Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear, 
And  mothers  that  lack  sons. " 

How  did  Shakspeare  know  that  Virgilia  could  not  speak  ? 

This  knowledge,  this  intuitive  and  penetrative  perception, 
is  still  one  of  the  forms,  the  highest,  of  imagination,  but  there 
is  no  combination  of  images  here. 

We  find,  then,  that  the  imagination  has  three  totally  dis- 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE, 


339 


tinct  functions.  It  combines,  and  by  combination  creates 
new  forms  ;  but  the  secret  principle  of  this  combination  has 
§6,  The  three  op-  not  been  shown  by  the  analysts.  Again,  it 
Siagination.  Pen-  treats  or  regards  both  the  simple  images  and 
tivf ^^contempia-  Combinations  in  peculiar  ways  ;  and, 

thirdly,  it  penetrates,  analyzes,  and  reaches 
truths  by  no  other  faculty  discoverable.  These  its  three 
functions,  I  shall  endeavor  to  illustrate,  but  not  in  this  order  : 
the  most  logical  mode  of  treatment  would  be  to  follow  the 
order  in  which  commonly  the  mind  works ;  that  is,  penetrat- 
ing first,  combining  next,  and  treating  or  regarding,  finally  ; 
but  this  arrangement  would  be  inconvenient,  because  the  acts 
of  penetration  and  of  regard  are  so  closely  connected,  and  so 
like  in  their  relations  to  other  mental  acts,  that  I  wish  to  ex- 
amine them  consecutively,  and  the  rather,  because  they  have 
to  do  with  higher  subject  matter  than  the  mere  act  of  com- 
bination, whose  distinctive  nature,  that  property  which  makes 
it  imagination  and  not  composition,  it  will  I  think  be  best  to 
explain  at  setting  out,  as  we  easily  may,  in  subjects  familiar 
and  material.  I  shall  therefore  examine  the  imaginative  fac- 
ulty in  these  three  forms  ;  first,  as  combining  or  associative  ; 
secondly,  as  analytic  or  penetrative  ;  thirdly,  as  regardant  or 
contemplative. 


CHAPTER  IL 

OF   IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 

In  order  to  render  our  inquiry  as  easy  as  possible,  we  shall 
consider  the  dealing  of  the  associative  imagination  with  the 
simplest  possible  matter,  that  is, — with  conceptions  of  mate- 
§  1.  Of  simple  ^ial  things.  First,  therefore,  we  must  define  the 
conception.        nature  of  these  conceptions  themselves. 

After  beholding  and  examining  any  material  object,  our 
knowledge  respecting  it  exists  in  two  different  forms.  Some 
facts  exist  in  the  brain  in  a  verbal  form,  as  known,  but  not 
conceived,  as,  for  instance,  that  it  was  heavy  or  lightjj  that 


340 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


it  was  eight  inches  and  a  quarter  long,  etc.,  of  which  length 
we  cannot  have  accurate  conception,  but  only  such  a  con- 
ception as  might  attach  to  a  length  of  seven  inches  or  nine  ; 
and  which  fact  we  may  recollect  without  any  conception  of 
the  object  at  all.  Other  facts  respecting  it  exist  in  the  brain 
in  a  visible  form,  not  always  visible,  but  voluntarily  visible, 
as  its  being  white,  or  having  such  and  such  a  complicated 
shape,  as  the  form  of  a  rose-bud,  for  instance,  which  it  would 
be  difficult  to  express  verbally,  neither  is  it  retained  by  the 
brain  in  a  verbal  form,  but  a  visible  one,  that  is,  when  we 
wish  for  knowledge  of  its  form  for  immediate  use,  we  sum- 
mon up  a  vision  or  image  of  the  thing  ;  we  do  not  remem- 
ber it  in  words,  as  we  remember  the  fact  that  it  took  so  many 
days  to  blow,  or  that  it  was  gathered  at  such  and  such  a 
time. 

The  knowledge  of  things  retained  in  this  visible  form  is 
called  conception  by  the  metaphysicians,  which  term  I  shall 
retain  ;  it  is  inaccurately  called  imagination  by  Taylor,  in 
the  passage  quoted  by  Wordsworth  in  the  preface  to  his 
poems,  not  but  that  the  term  imagination  is  etymologically 
and  rightly  expressive  of  it,  but  we  want  that  term  for  a 
higher  faculty. 

There  are  many  questions  respecting  this  faculty  of  con- 
ception of  very  great  interest,  such  as  the  exact  amount  of 
aid  that  verbal  knowledge  renders  so  visible,  (as,  for  instance, 
the  verbal  knowledore  that  a  flower  has  five,  or 

§  2.    How  con-  ,     .    .  ' 

nected  with  ver-  scvcu,  or  ten  petals,  or  that  a  muscle  is  insert- 
bai  knowledge.  such  and  such  a  point  of  the  bone,  aids 

the  conception  of  the  flower  or  the  limb  ;)  and  again,  what 
amount  of  aid  the  visible  knowledge  renders  to  the  verbal, 
as  for  instance,  whether  any  one,  being  asked  a  question 
about  some  animal  or  thing,  which  instantly  and  from  verbal 
knowledge  he  cannot  answer,  may  have  such  power  of  sum- 
moning up  the  image  of  the  animal  or  thing  as  to  ascertain 
the  fact,  by  actual  beholding,  (which  I  do  not  assert,  but  can 
conceive  to  be  possible  ;)  and  again,  what  is  that  indefinite 
and  subtile  character  of  the  conception  itself  in  most  men, 
which  admits  not  of  being  by  themselves  traced  or  realized, 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE, 


341 


and  yet  is  a  sure  test  of  likeness  in  any  representation  of  the 
thing  ;  like  an  intaglio,  with  a  front  light  on  it,  whose  lines 
cannot  be  seen,  and  yet  they  will  lit  one  definite  form  only, 
and  that  accurately  ;  these  and  many  other  questions  it  is 
irrelevant  at  present  to  determine,*  since  to  forward  our 
present  purpose,  it  will  be  well  to  suppose  the  conception, 
aided  by  verbal  knowledge,  to  be  absolutely  perfect,  and  we 
will  suppose  a  man  to  retain  such  clear  image  of  a  large  num- 
ber of  the  material  things  he  has  seen,  as  to  be  able  to  set 
down  any  of  them  on  paper  with  perfect  fidelity  and  absolute 
memory  f  of  their  most  minute  features. 

In  thus  setting  them  down  on  paper,  he  works,  I  suppose, 
exactly  as  he  would  work  from  nature,  only  copying  the  re- 
membered image  in  his  mind,  instead  of  the  real  thing.  He 
is,  therefore,  still  nothing  more  than  a  copyist.  There  is  no 
exercise  of  imagination  in  this  whatsoever. 

But  over  these  images,  vivid  and  distinct  as  nature  her- 
self, he  has  a  command  which  over  nature  he  has  not.  He 
can  summon  any  that  he  chooses,  and  if,  therefore,  any 
§3  How  used  in  g^^up  of  them  which  he  received  from  nature  be 
coraposition.  not  altogether  to  his  mind,  he  is  at  liberty  to 
remove  some  of  the  component  images,  add  others  foreign, 
and  re-arrange  the  whole. 

Let  us  suppose,  for  instance,  that  he  has  perfect  knowledge 
of  the  forms  of  the  Aiguilles  Verte  and  Argentiere,  and  of 
the  great  glacier  between  them  at  the  upper  extremity  of  the 
valley  of  Chamonix.  The  forms  of  the  mountains  please  him^ 
but  the  presence  of  the  glacier  suits  not  his  purpose.  He 
removes  the  glacier,  sets  the  mountains  farther  apart,  and 
introduces  between  them  part  of  the  valley  of  the  Rhone. 

This  is  composition,  and  is  what  Dugald  Stewart  mistook 
for  imagination,  in  the  kingdom  of  which  noble  faculty  it  has 
no  part  nor  lot. 

The  essential  characters  of  composition,  properly  so  called, 

*  Compare  Chapter  IV.  of  this  Section. 

f  On  the  distinction  rightly  made  by  the  metaphysicians  between  con- 
ception absolute  and  conception  accompanied  by  reference  to  past  time, 
(or  memory,)  it  is  of  no  necessity  here  to  insist. 


342 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE, 


are  these.  The  mind  which  desires  the  new  feature  sum- 
mons  up  before  it  those  images  which  it  supposes  to  be  of 
_  ^  ^     the  kind  wanted,  of  these  it  takes  the  one  which 

§  4.     Character-  ' 

isticsof  composi-  it  supposes  to  be  fittest,  and  tries  it  :  if  it  will 

tion.  .       .  '  .1-1  1      .  , 

not  answer,  it  tries  another,  until  it  has  obtained 
such  an  association  as  pleases  it. 

In  this  operation,  if  it  be  of  little  sensibility,  it  regards 
only  the  absolute  beauty  or  value  of  the  images  brought  be- 
fore it  ;  and  takes  that  or  those  which  it  thinks  fairest  or 
most  interesting,  without  any  regard  to  their  sympathy  with 
those  for  whose  company  they  are  destined.  Of  this  kind  is 
all  vulgar  composition  ;  the  "  Mulino  "  of  Claude,  described 
in  the  preface  to  the  first  part,  being  a  characteristic  ex- 
ample. 

If  the  mind  be  of  higher  feeling,  it  will  look  to  the  sym- 
pathy or  contrast  of  the  features,  to  their  likeness  or  dissimi- 
larity ;  it  will  take,  as  it  thinks  best,  features  resembling  or 
discordant,  and  if  when  it  has  put  the.m  together,  it  be  not 
satisfied,  it  will  repeat  the  process  on  the  features  themselves, 
cutting  away  one  part  and  putting  in  another,  so  working 
more  and  more  delicately  down  to  the  lowest  details,  until  by 
dint  of  experiment,  of  repeated  trials  and  shiftings,  and  con- 
stant reference  to  principles,  (as  that  two  lines  must  not 
mimic  one  another,  that  one  mass  must  not  be  equal  to  an- 
other,) etc.,  it  has  morticed  together  a  satisfactory  result. 

This  process  will  be  more  and  more  rapid  and  effective,  in 
proportion  to  the  artist's  powers  of  conception  and  associa- 
tion, these  in  their  turn  depending  on  his  knowledge  and 
experience.  The  distinctness  of  his  powers  of  conception 
will  give  value,  point,  and  truth  to  every  fragment  that  he 
draws  from  memory.  His  powers  of  association,  and  his 
§  5  What  pow  knowledge  of  nature  will  pour  out  before  him  in 
ers  are  implied  trreatcr  or  Icss  number  and  appositeness  the  im- 

by  it.    The  first  ^ 

of  the  three  func-  agcs  from  which  to  choosc.    Ilis  experience 
fancy.     g^i(]gg  ^o  quick  discernment  in  the  com- 

bination, when  made,  of  the  parts  that  are  offensive  and  re- 
quire change. 

The  most  elevated  power  of  mind  of  all  these,  is  that  of 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


343 


association,  by  which  images  apposite  or  resemblant,  or  of 
whatever  kind  wanted,  are  called  up  quickly  and  ia  multi- 
tudes. When  this  power  is  very  brilliant,  it  is  called  fancy, 
not  that  this  is  the  only  meaning  of  the  word  fancy,  but  it  is 
the  meaning  of  it  in  relation  to  that  function  of  the  imagi- 
nation which  we  are  here  considering  :  for  fancy  has  three 
functions  ;  one  subordinate  to  each  of  the  three  functions  of 
the  imagination. 

Great  differences  of  power  are  manifested  among  artists  in 
this  respect,  some  having  hosts  of  distinct  images  always  at 
their  command,  and  rapidly  discerning  resemblance  or  con- 
trast ;  others  having  few  images,  and  obscure,  at  their  dis- 
posal, nor  readily  governing  those  they  have. 

Where  the  powers  of  fancy  are  very  brilliant,  the  picture 
becomes  highly  interesting  ;  if  her  images  are  systematically 
and  rightly  combined,  and  truthfully  rendered,  it  will  be- 
come even  impressive  and  instructive  ;  if  wittily  and  curi- 
ously combined,  it  will  be  captivating  and  entertaining. 

But  all  this  time  the  imagination  has  not  once  shown  itself. 
§6  Imagination  ^^^^  (cxcept  the  gift  of  fancy)  may  be  taught, 
fefted^^  ^ani-  all  this  is  easily  comprehended  and  analyzed  ; 

but  imagination  is  neither  to  be  taught,  nor  by 
any  efforts  to  be  attained,  nor  by  any  acuteness  of  discern- 
ment dissected  or  analyzed. 

We  have  seen  that  in  composition  the  mind  can  only  take 
cognizance  of  likeness  or  dissimilarity,  or  of  abstract  beauty 
among  the  ideas  it  brings  together.  But  neither  likeness 
nor  dissimilarity  secures  harmony.  We  saw  in  the  chapter 
on  unity  that  likeness  destroyed  harmony  or  unity  of  mem- 
bership, and  that  difference  did  not  necessarily  secure  it,  but 
only  that  particular  imperfection  in  each  of  the  harmonizing 
parts  which  can  only  be  supplied  by  its  fellow  part.  If, 
therefore,  the  combination  made  is  to  be  harmonious,  the  artist 
must  induce  in  each  of  its  component  parts  (suppose  two 
only,  for  simplicity's  sake,)  such  imperfection  as  that  the 
other  shall  put  it  right.  If  one  of  them  be  perfect  by  itself, 
the  other  will  be  an  excrescence.  Both  must  be  faulty  when 
separate,  and  each  corrected  by  the  presence  of  the  other.  If 


344  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


he  can  accomplish  this,  the  result  will  be  beautiful  ;  it  will  be 
a  whole,  an  organized  body  with  dependent  members  ; — he  is 
an  inventor.  If  not,  let  his  separate  features  be  as  beautiful, 
as  apposite,  or  as  resemblant  as  they  may,  they  form  no  whole. 
They  are  two  members  glued  together.  He  is  only  a  car- 
penter and  joiner. 

Now,  the  conceivable  imperfections  of  any  single  feature 
are  infinite.    It  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  fix 

§  7.  Imagination  «       .        .  , 

is  the  correlative  upon  a  form  of  impcrf cctiou  in  the  one,  and  try 
perfeTt^^^^coin;^-  with  this  all  the  forms  of  imperfection  of  the 
nent  parts.  other  Until  One  fits  ;  but  the  two  imperfections 
must  be  co-relatively  and  simultaneously  conceived. 

This  is  imagination,  properly  so  called,  imagination  associ- 
ative, the  grandest  mechanical  power  that  the  human  intelli- 
gence possesses,  and  one  which  will  appear  more  and  more 
marvellous  the  longer  we  consider  it.  By  its  operation,  two 
ideas  are  chosen  out  of  an  infinite  mass,  (for  it  evidently  mat- 
ters not  whether  the  imperfections  be  conceived  out  of  the 
infinite  number  conceivable,  or  selected  out  of  a  number  recol- 
lected,), two  ideas  which  are  separately  wrong,  which  together 
shall  be  right,  and  of  whose  unity,  therefore,  the  idea  must 
be  formed  at  the  instant  they  are  seized,  as  it  is  only  in  tha.t 
unity  that  either  are  good,  and  therefore  only  the  conception 
of  that  unity  can  prompt  the  preference.  Now,  what  is  that 
prophetic  action  of  mind,  which,  out  of  an  infinite  mass  of 
things  that  cannot  be  tried  together,  seizes,  at  the  same  in- 
stant two  that  are  fit  for  each  other,  together  right  ;  yet  each 
disagreeable  alone. 

This  operation  of  mind,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  is 
aiogy^with^\^m-  absolutely  inexplicable,  but  there  is  something 

agination.  ti      ...       i        .  . 

like  It  in  chemistry. 
"  The  action  of  sulphuric  acid  on  metallic  zinc  affords  an 
instance  of  what  was  once  called  disposing  affinity.  Zinc  de- 
composes pure  water  at  common  temperatures  with  extreme 
slowness  ;  but  as  soon  as  sulphuric  acid  is  added,  decomposi- 
tion of  the  water  takes  place  rapidly,  though  the  acid  merely 
unites  with  oxide  of  zinc.  The  former  explanation  was,  that 
the  affinity  of  the  acid  for  oxide  of  zinc  disposed  the  metal  to 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


345 


unite  with  oxygen,  and  thus  enabled  it  to  decompose  water  ; 
that  is,  the  oxide  of  zinc  was  supposed  to  produce  an  effect 
previous  to  its  existence.  The  obscurity  of  this  explanation 
arises  from  regarding  changes  as  consecutive,  which  are  in 
reality  simultaneous.  There  is  no  succession  in  the  process, 
the  oxide  of  zinc  is  not  formed  previously  to  its  combination 
with  the  acid,  but  at  the  same  instant.  There  is,  as  it  were, 
but  one  chemical  change,  which  consists  in  the  combination 
at  one  and  the  same  moment  of  zinc  with  oxygen,  and  of  ox- 
ide of  zinc  with  the  acid  ;  and  this  change  occurs  because 
these  two  affinities,  acting  together,  overcome  the  attraction 
of  oxygen  and  hydrogen  for  one  another."  * 

Now,  if  the  imaginative  artist  will  permit  us,  with  all  defer- 
ence, to  represent  his  combining  intelligence  under  the  figure 
of  sulphuric  acid  ;  and  if  we  suppose  the  fragment  of  zinc  to 
be  embarrassed  among  infinitely  numerous  fragments  of  di- 
verse metals,  and  the  oxygen  dispersed  and  mingled  among 
gases  countless  and  indistinguishable,  we  shall  have  an  excel- 
lent type  in  material  things  of  the  action  of  the  imagination 
on  the  immaterial.  Both  actions  are,  I  think,  inexplicable, 
for  however  simultaneous  the  chemical  changes  may  be,  yet 
the  causing  power  is  the  affinity  of  the  acid  for  what  has  no 
existence.  It  is  neither  to  be  explained  how  that  affinity 
operates  on  atoms  uncombined,  nor  how  the  artist's  desire  for 
an  unconceived  whole  prompts  him  to  the  selection  of  neces- 
sary divisions. 

Now,  this  operation  would  be  wonderful  enough,  if  it  were 
concerned  with  two  ideas  only.    But  a  powerfully  imagina- 
tive mind  seizes  and  combines  at  the  same  instant,  not  only 
^  two,  but  all  the  important  ideas  of  its  poem  or 

and  dignity^^lf  picture,  and  while  it  works  with  any  one  of  them, 
imagination.  Same  iustaut  Working  with  and  modi- 

fying all  in  their  relations  to  it,  never  losing  sight  of  their 
bearings  on  each  other  ;  as  the  motion  of  a  snake's  body  goes 
through  all  parts  at  once,  and  its  volition  acts  at  the  same 
instant  in  coils  that  go  contrary  ways. 

*  Elements  of  Chemistry,  by  the  late  Edward  Turner,  M.D.  Part 
II.,  Sec.  IV. 


346  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


This  faculty  is  indeed  something  that  looks  as  if  man  were 
made  after  the  image  of  God.  It  is  inconceivable,  admira- 
ble, altogether  divine  ;  and  yet  wonderful  as  it  may  seem,  it 
is  palpably  evident  that  no  less  an  operation  is  necessary  for 
the  production  of  any  great  work,  for,  by  the  definition  of 
unity  of  membership,  (the  essential  characteristic  of  great- 
ness,) not  only  certain  couples  or  groups  of  parts,  but  all 
the.  parts  of  a  noble  work  must  be  separately  imperfect  ; 
each  must  imply,  and  ask  for  all  the  rest,  and  the  glory  of 
every  one  of  them  must  consist  in  its  relation  to  the  rest, 
neither  while  so  much  as  one  is  wanting  can  any  be  right. 
And  it  is  evidently  impossible  to  conceive  in  each  separate 
feature,  a  certain  want  or  wrongness  which  can  only  be  cor- 
rected by  the  other  features  of  the  picture,  (not  by  one  or 
two  merely,  but  by  all,)  unless  together  with  the  want,  we 
conceive  also  of  what  is  wanted,  that  is  of  all»the  rest  of  the 
work  or  picture.    Hence  Fuseli  : — 

"  Second  thoughts  are  admissible  in  painting  and  poetry 
only  as  dressers  of  the  first  conception  ;  no  great  idea  was 
ever  formed  in  fragments.." 

"  He  alone  can  conceive  and  compose  who  sees  the  whole 
at  once  before  him." 

There  is,  however,  a  limit  to  the  power  of  all  human  im- 
agination. When  the  relations  to  be  observed  are  absolute- 
ly necessary,  and  highly  complicated,  the  mind  cannot  grasp 
them,  and  the  result  is  a  total  deprivation  of  all 

§10.    Its  limits.  -  .         .       .  .  , 

power  oi  imagination  associative  in  such  mat- 
ter. For  this  reason,  no  human  mind  has  ever  conceived  a 
new  animal.  For  as  it  is  evident  that  in  an  animal,  every 
part  implies  all  the  rest  ;  that  is,  the  form  of  the  eye  involves 
the  form  of  the  brow  and  nose,  these  the  form  of  the  fore- 
head and  lip,  these  of  the  head  and  chin,  and  so  on,  so  that 
it  is  physically  impossible  to  conceive  of  any  one  of  these 
members,  unless  we  conceive  the  relation  it  bears  to  the 
whole  animal ;  and  as  this  relation  is  necessary,  certain,  and 
complicated,  allowing  of  no  license  or  inaccuracy,  the  intelv 
lect  utterly  fails  under  the  load,  and  is  reduced  to  mere  com- 
position, putting  the  bird's  wing  on  men's  shoulders,  or  half 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE.  347 


the  human  body  to  half  the  horse's,  in  doing  which  there  is  no 
action  of  imagination,  but  only  of  fancy  ;  though  in  the  treat- 
ment and  contemplation  of  the  compound  form  there  may  be 
much  imagination,  as  we  shall  presently  see.  (Chap.  III.  §  30.) 

The  matter,  therefore,  in  which  associative  imagination  can 
§  11.  How  mani-  be  shown  is  that  which  admits  of  great  license 
ment^  of  ^  uncer-  Variety  of  arrangements,  and  in  which  a 

Scien^y^^nius-  Certain  amount  of  relation  only  is  required  ;  as 
trated.  especially  in  the  elements  of  landscape  paint- 

ing, in  which  best  it  may  be  illustrated. 

When  an  unimaginative  painter  is  about  to  draw  a  tree, 
(and  we  will  suppose  him,  for  better  illustration  of  the  point 
in  question,  to  have  good  feeling  and  correct  knowledge  of 
the  nature  of  trees,)  he  probably  lays  on  his  paper  such  a 
general  form  as  he  knows  to  be  characteristic  of  the  tree  to 
be  drawn,  and  such  as  he  believes  will  fall  in  agreeably  with 
the  other  masses  of  his  picture,  which  we  will  suppose  partly 
prepared.  When  this  form  is  set  down,  he  assuredly  finds  it 
has  done  something  he  did  not  intend  it  to  do.  It  has  mim- 
icked some  prominent  line,  or  overpowered  some  necessary 
mass.  He  begins  pruning  and  changing,  and  after  several 
experiments,  succeeds  in  obtaining  a  form  which  does  no  ma- 
terial mischief  to  any  other.  To  this  form  he  proceeds  to 
attach  a  trunk,  and  having  probably  a  received  notion  or 
rule  (for  the  unimaginative  painter  never  works  without  a 
principle)  that  tree  trunks  ought  to  lean  first  one  way  and 
then  the  other  as  they  go  up,  and  ought  not  to  stand  under 
the  middle  of  the  tree,  he  sketches  a  serpentine  form  of  req- 
uisite propriety  ;  when  it  has  gone  up  far  enough,  that  is 
till  it  begins  to  look  disagreeably  long,  he  will  begin  to  ram- 
ify it,  and  if  there  be  another  tree  in  the  picture  with  two 
large  branches,  he  knows  that  this,  by  all  laws  of  composition, 
ought  to  have  three  or  four,  or  some  different  number  ;  one 
because  he  knows  that  if  three  or  four  branches  start  from 
the  same  point  they  will  look  formal,  therefore  he  makes  them 
start  from  points  one  above  another,  and  because  equal  dis- 
tances are  improper,  therefore  they  shall  start  at  unequal 
distances.    When  they  are  fairly  started,  he  knows  they 


348 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE, 


must  undulate  or  go  backwards  and  forwards,  which  accord- 
ingly he  makes  them  do  at  random  ;  and  because  he  knows 
that  all  forms  ought  to  be  contrasted,  therefore  he  makes  one 
bend  down  while  the  other  three  go  up.  The  three  that  go 
up  he  knows  must  not  go  up  without  interfering  with  each 
other,  and  so  he  makes  two  of  them  cross.  He  thinks  it  also 
proper  that  there  should  be  variety  of  character  in  them,  so 
he  makes  the  one  that  bends  down  graceful  and  flexible,  and 
of  the  two  that  cross,  he  splinters  one  and  makes  a  stump 
of  it.  He  repeats  the  process  among  the  more  complicated 
minor  boughs,  until  coming  to  the  smallest,  he  thinks  farther 
care  unnecessary,  but  draws  them  freely,  and  by  chance. 
Having  to  put  on  the  foliage,  he  will  make  it  flow  properly 
in  the  direction  of  the  tree's  growth,  he  will  make  all  the 
extremities  graceful,  but  will  be  grievously  plagued  by  find- 
ing them  come  all  alike,  and  at  last  will  be  obliged  to  spoil  a 
number  of  them  altogether,  in  order  to  obtain  opposition. 
They  will  not,  however,  be  united  in  this  their  spoliation,  but 
will  remain  uncomfortably  separate  and  individually  ill-tem- 
pered. He  consoles  himself  by  the  reflection  that  it  is  un- 
natural for  all  of  them  to  be  equally  perfect. 

Now  I  suppose  that  through  the  whole  of  this  process  he 
has  been  able  to  refer  to  his  definite  memory  or  conception 
of  nature  for  every  one  of  the  fragments  he  has  successively 
§12.  Laws  of  art,  added,  that  the  details,  color,  fractures,  inser- 
Jhe  'unfmagina-  ^ions,  ctc,  of  his  boughs,  are  all  either  actual 
recollections  or  based  on  secure  knowledge  of 
the  tree,  (and  herein  I  allow  far  more  than  is  commonly  the 
case  with  unimaginative  painters.)  But  as  far  as  the  pro- 
cess of  combination  is  concerned,  it  is  evident  that  from  be- 
ginning to  end  his  laws  have  been  his  safety,  and  his  plague 
has  been  his  liberty.  He  has  been  compelled  to  work  at  ran- 
dom, or  under  the  guidance  of  feeling  only,  whenever  there 
was  anything  left  to  his  own  decisiouo  He  has  never  been 
decided  in  anything  except  in  what  he  must  or  must  not  do. 
He  has  walked  as  a  drunken  man  on  a  broad  road,  his  guides 
are  the  hedges  ;  and  between  these  limits,  the  broader  the 
way,  the  worse  he  gets  on. 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


349 


The  advance  of  the  imaginative  artist  is  precisely  the  re- 
verse of  this.  He  has  no  laws.  He  defies  all  restraint,  and 
cuts  down  all  hedges.  There  is  nothing  within  the  limits  of 
o      .    ^  .n-    natural  possibility  that  he  dares  not  do,  or  that 

§  13.  Are  by  the  ^  ^  .  ^ 

imaginative  he  allows  the  necessity  of  doing.    The  laws  of 

painter  despised.  *^  . 

Tests  of  imagina-  nature  he  knows,  these  are  to  nim  no  restraint. 

They  are  his  own  nature.  All  other  laws  or 
limits  he  sets  at  utter  defiance,  his  journey  is  over  an  un- 
trodden and  pathless  plain.  But  he  sees  his  end  over  the 
waste  from  the  first,  and  goes  straight  at  it,  never  losing 
sight  of  it,  nor  throwing  away  a  step.  Nothing  can  stop 
him,  nothing  turn  him  aside  ;  falcons  and  lynxes  are  of  slow 
and  uncertain  sight  compared  with  his.  He  saw  his  tree, 
trunk,  boughs,  foliage  and  all,  from  the  first  moment  ;  not 
only  the  tree  but  the  sky  behind  it  ;  not  only  that  tree  or 
sky,  but  all  the  other  great  features  of  his  picture  :  by  what 
intense  power  of  instantaneous  selection  and  amalgamation 
cannot  be  explained,  but  by  this  it  may  be  proved  and  tested, 
that  if  we  examine  the  tree  of  the  unimaginative  painter,  we 
shall  find  that  on  removing  any  part  or  parts  of  it,  the  rest 
will  indeed  suffer,  as  being  deprived  of  the  proper  develop- 
ment of  a  tree,  and  as  involving  a  blank  space  that  wants 
occupation  ;  but  the  portions  left  are  not  made  discordant 
or  disagreeable.  They  are  absolutely  and  in  themselves  as 
valuable  as  they  can  be,  every  stem  is  a  perfect  stem,  and 
every  twig  a  graceful  twig,  or  at  least  as  perfect  and  as  grace- 
ful as  they  were  before  the  removal  of  the  rest.  But  if  we 
try  the  same  experiment  on  the  imaginative  painter's  work, 
and  break  off  the  merest  stem  or  twig  of  it,  it  all  goes  to 
pieces  like  a  Prince  Rupert's  drop.  There  is  not  so  much  as 
a  seed  of  it  but  it  lies  on  the  tree's  life,  like  the  grain  upon 
the  tongue  of  Chaucer's  sainted  child.  Take  it  away,  and 
the  boughs  will  sing  to  us  no  longer.  All  is  dead  and  cold. 
§14  The  monot-  This  then  is  the  first  sign  of  the  presence  of 
ony  of  unimagin-  real  imagination  as  opposed  to  composition.  But 

ative  treatment.    ,  .  .  ,  . 

here  is  another  not  less  important. 
We  have  seen  that  as  each  part  is  selected  and  fitted  by 
the  unimaginative  painter,  he  renders  it,  in  itself,  as  beauti- 


350 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


f  ul  as  he  is  able.  If  it  be  ugly,  it  remains  so,  he  is  incapable 
of  correcting  it  by  the  addition  of  another  ugliness,  and 
therefore  he  chooses  all  his  features  as  fair  as  they  may  be 
(at  least  if  his  object  be  beauty.)  But  a  small  proportion 
only  of  the  ideas  he  has  at  his  disposal  will  reach  his  stand- 
ard of  absolute-beauty.  The  others  will  be  of  no  use  to  him, 
and  among  those  which  he  permits  himself  to  use,  there  will 
be  so  marked  a  family  likeness,  that  he  will  be  more  and 
more  cramped,  as  his  picture  advances,  for  want  of  material, 
and  tormented  by  multiplying  resemblances,  unless  disguised 
by  some  artifice  of  light  and  shade  or  other  forced  difference, 
and  with  all  the  differences  he  can  imagine,  his  tree  will  yet 
show  a  sameness  and  sickening  repetition  in  all  its  parts,  and 
all  his  trees  will  be  like  one  another,  except  so  far  as  one 
leans  east  and  another  west,  one  is  broadest  at  the  top  and 
another  at  the  bottom,  while  through  all  this  insipid  repeti- 
tion, the  means  by  which  he  forces  contrast,  dark  boughs 
opposed  to  light,  rugged  to  smooth,  etc.,  will  be  painfully 
evident,  to  the  utter  destruction  of  all  dignity  and  repose. 

The  imapfinative  work  is  necessarily  the  absolute 

§  15.     Imagina-  •         /.    n    i  •  a       n  • 

tion  never  re-  oDDOSitc  of  all  this.    As  all  its  parts  are  imper- 

peats  itself.  .  .  . 

feet,  and  as  there  is  an  unlimited  supply  of  im- 
perfection, (for  the  ways  in  which  things  may  be  wrong  are 
infinite,)  the  imagination  is  never  at  a  loss,  nor  ever  likely  to 
repeat  itself  ;  nothing  comes  amiss  to  it,  but  whatever  rude 
matter  it  receives,  it  instantly  so  arranges  that  it  comes  right; 
all  things  fall  into  their  place  and  appear  in  that  place  per- 
fect, useful,  and  evidently  not  to  be  spared,  so  that  of  its 
combinations  there  is  endless  variety,  and  every  intractable 
and  seemingly  unavailable  fragment  that  we  give  to  it,  is 
instantly  turned  to  some  brilliant  use,  and  made  the  nucleus 
of  a  new  group  of  glory  ;  however  poor  or  common  the  gift, 
it  will  be  thankful  for  it,  treasure  it  up,  and  pay  in  gold,  and 
it  has  that  life  in  it  and  fire,  that  wherever  it  passes,  among 
the  dead  bones  and  dust  of  things,  behold  a  shaking,  and  the 
bones  come  together,  bone  to  his  bone. 

And  now  we  find  what  noble  sympathy  and  unity  there  is 
between  the  imaginative  and  theoretic  faculties.    Both  agree 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


351 


in  this,  that  they  reject  nothing,  and  are  thankful  for  all  ; 
but  the  theoretic  faculty  takes  out  of  everything  that  which 
§  16.  Keiation  of  is  beautiful,  while  the  imaginative  faculty  takes 
Scui^Tjrfhe  liold  of  the  very  imperfections  which  the  theo- 
theoretic.  retic  rejects,  and  by  means  of  these  angles  and 

roughnesses,  it  joints  and  bolts  the  separate  stones  into  a 
mighty  temple,  wherein  the  theoretic  faculty  in  its  turn, 
does  deepest  homage.  Thus  sympathetic  in  their  desires, 
harmoniously  diverse  in  their  operation,  each  working  for 
the  other  with  what  the  other  needs  not,  all  things  external 
to  man  are  by  one  or  other  turned  to  good. 

Now  we  have  hitherto,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  opposed 
the  total  absence  of  imagination  to  the  perfect  presence  of 
it,  in  order  to  make  the  difference  between  composition  and 
imagination  thoroughly  understood.  But  if  we  are  to  give 
„  examples  of  either  the  want  or  the  presence  of 

§  17.     Modifica-     ,        ^  .     .  \  . 

tionofits  mani-  the  powcr,  it  IS  neccssary  to  note  the  circum- 
stances by  which  both  are  modified.  In  the 
first  place,  few  artists  of  any  standing  are  totally  devoid  of 
this  faculty,  some  small  measure  of  it  most  of  them  possess, 
though  of  all  the  forms  of  intellect,  this,  and  its  sister,  pen- 
etrative imagination,  are  the  rarest  and  most  precious  ;  but 
few  painters  have  reached  eminence  without  some  leaven  of 
it,  whether  it  can  be  increased  by  practice  I  doubt.  On  the 
other  hand,  fewer  still  are  possessed  of  it  in  very  high  de- 
gree, and  even  with  the  men  of  most  gigantic  power  in  this 
respect,  of  whom,  I  think,  Tintoret  stands  far  the  head,  there 
are  evident  limits  to  its  exercise,  and  portions  to  be  found 
in  their  works  that  have  not  been  included  in  the  original 
grasp  of  them,  but  have  been  suggested  and  incorporated 
during  their  progress,  or  added  in  decoration  ;  and  with  the 
great  mass  of  painters  there  are  frequent  flaws  and  failures 
in  the'  conception,  so  that,  when  they  intend  to  produce  a 
perfect  work  they  throw  their  thought  into  different  experi- 
mental forms,  and  decorate  it  and  discipline  it  long  before 
realizing  it,  so  that  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  mere  com- 
position in  the  most  imaginative  works  ;  and  a  grain  or  two 
of  imagination  commonly  in  the  most  artificial.    And  again, 


352  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


whatever  portions  of  a  picture  are  taken  honestly  and  with- 
out alteration  from  nature,  have,  so  far  as  they  go,  the  look 
of  imagination,  because  all  that  nature  does  is  imaginative, 
that  is,  perfect  as  a  whole,  and  made  up  of  imperfect  feat- 
ures ;  so  that  the  painter  of  the  meanest  imaginative  power 
may  yet  do  grand  things,  if  he  will  keep  to  strict  portraiture, 
and  it  would  be  well  if  all  artists  were  to  endeavor  to  do  so, 
for  if  they  have  imagination,  it  will  force  its  way  in  spite  of 
them,  and  show  itself  in  their  every  stroke,  and  if  not,  they 
will  not  get  it  by  leaving  nature,  but  only  sink  into  nothing- 
ness. 

Keeping  these  points  in  view,  it  is  interesting  to  observe 
the  different  degrees  and  relations  of  the  imagination,  as  ac- 
companied with  more  or  less  feeling  or  desire  of  harmony, 
§18.   Instances  yis^or  of  Conception,  or  constancv  of  reference 

of  absence  of  im-  i  p  " 

agination.—  to  truth.  Of  men  of  name,  perhaps  Claude  is 
Poussfn.  ^^^^^^  the  best  instance  of  a  want  of  imagination, 
nearly  total,  borne  out  by  painful  but  untaught  study  of  nat- 
ure, and  much  feeling  for  abstract  beauty  of  form,  with  none 
whatever  for  harmony  of  expression.  In  Gaspar  Poussin, 
we  have  the  same  want  of  imagination  disguised  by  more 
masculine  qualities  of  mind,  and  grander  reachings  after  sym- 
pathy. Thus  in  the  sacrifice  of  Isaac  in  our  own  gallery,  the 
spirit  of  the  composition  is  solemn  and  unbroken  ;  it  would 
have  been  a  grand  picture  if  the  forms  of  the  mass  of  foliage 
on  the  right,  and  of  the  clouds  in  the  centre,  had  not  been 
hoplessly  unimaginative.  The  stormy  wind  of  the  picture  of 
Dido  and  Eneas  blows  loudly  through  its  leaves,  but  the  total 
want  of  invention  in  the  cloud  forms  bears  it  down  beyond 
redemption.  The  foreground  tree  of  the  La  Riccia  (compare 
Part  II.  Sec.  VI.  Chap.  I.,  §  6.)  is  another  characteristic  in- 
stance of  absolute  nullit}'  of  imagination. 

In  Salvator,  the  imagination  is  vigorous,  the  composition 
§  19  Its  pres-  dcxtcrous  and  clever,  as  in  the  St.  Jerome  of  the 
Brera  Gallery,  the  Diogenes  of  the  Pitti,  and 
Titian,  Tintoret.  ^]^^  pictures  of  the  Guadagni  palace.  All  are 
rendered  valueless  by  coarseness  of  feeling  and  habitual  non- 
reference  to  nature. 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


353 


All  the  landscape  of  Nicolo  Poussiri  is  imaginative,  but  the 
development  of  the  power  in  Tintoret  and  Titian  is  so  un- 
approachably intense  that  the  mind  unwillingly  rests  else- 
where. The  four  landscapes  v^hich  occur  to  me  as  the  most 
magnificently  characteristic  are,  first,  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  of 
the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  (Tintoret  ;)  secondly,  the  Titian  of 
the  Camuccini  collection  at  Rome,  with  the  figures  by  John 
Bellini  ;  thirdly,- Titian's  St.  Jerome,  in  the  Brera  Gallery  at 
Milan  ;  and  fourthly,  the  St.  Pietro  Martire,  which  I  name 
last,  in  spite  of  its  importance,  because  there  is  something 
unmeaning  and  unworthy  of  Titian  about  the  undulation  of 
the  trunks,  and  the  upper  part  of  it  is  destroyed  by  the  in- 
trusion of  some  dramatic  clouds  of  that  species  which  I  have 
enough  described  in  our  former  examination  of  the  central 
cloud  region,  §  13. 

I  do  not  mean  to  set  these  four  works  above  the  rest  of 
the  landscape  of  these  masters  ;  I  name  them  only  because 
the  landscape  is  in  them  prominent  and  characteristic.  It 
would  be  well  to  compare  with  them  the  other  backgrounds 
of  Tintoret  in  the  Scuola,  especially  that  of  the  Temptation 
and  the  Agony  in  the  Garden,  and  the  landscape  of  the  two 
large  pictures  in  the  church  of  La  Madonna  delP  Orto. 
§  20.  And  Tur-  ^ut  for  immediate  and  close  illustration,  it  is 
"^^*  perhaps  best  to  refer  to  a  work  more  accessi- 

ble, the  Cephalus  and  Procris  of  Turner,  in  Liber  Studi- 
orum. 

I  know  of  no  landscape  more  purely  or  magnificently  im- 
aginative or  bearing  more  distinct  evidence  of  the  relative  and 
simultaneous  conception  of  the  parts.  Let  the  reader  first 
cover  with  his  hand  the  two  trunks  that  rise  against  the  sky 
on  the  right,  and  ask  himself  how  any  termination  of  the  cen- 
tral mass  so  itgly  as  the  straight  trunk  which  he  will  then 
painfully  see,  could  have  been  conceived  or  admitted  without 
simultaneous  conception  of  the  trunks  he  has  taken  away  on 
the  right  ?  Let  him  again  conceal  the  whole  central  mass, 
and  leave  these  two  only,  and  again  ask  himself  whether  any- 
thing so  ugly  as  that  bare  trunk  in  the  shape  of  a  Y,  could 
have  been  admitted  without  reference  to  the  central  mass  ? 
Vol.  II.— 23 


354  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


Then  let  him  remove  from  this  trunk  its  two  arms,  and  try 
the  effect  ;  let  him  again  remove  the  single  trunk  on  the  ex- 
treme right  ;  then  let  him  try  the  third  trunk  without  the 
excrescence  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  finally,  let  him  conceal  the 
fourth  trunk  from  the  right,  with  the  slender  boughs  at  the 
top  ;  he  will  find  in  each  case  that  he  has  destroyed  a  feature 
on  which  everything  else  depends,  and  if  proof  be  required 
of  the  vital  power  of  still  smaller  features,  let  him  remove  the 
sunbeam  that  comes  through  beneath  the  faint  mass  of  trees 
on  the  hill  in  the  distance.  * 

It  is  useless  to  enter  into  farther  particulars  ;  the  reader 
may  be  left  to  his  ow^n  close  examination  of  this  and  of  the 
other  works  of  Turner,  in  which  he  will  always  find  the  asso- 
ciative imagination  developed  in  the  most  profuse  and  mar- 
vellous modes,  especially  in  the  drawing  of  foliage  and  skies, 
in  both  of  which  the  presence  or  absence  of  the  associative 
power  may  best  be  tested  in  all  artists.  I  have,  however, 
confined  my  present  illustrations  chiefly  to  foliage,  because 
other  operations  of  the  imagination  besides  the  associative, 
interfere  extensively  in  the  treatment  of  sky. 

There  remains  but  one  question  to  be  determined  relating 
§  21  The  due  ^^^^  faculty,  what  operation,  namely,  suppos- 
function  of  As-  ino^  it  posscsscd  in  his^h  dee^ree,  it  has  or  ousrht 

sociative  imagi-         i  -i  «  ^ 

nation  with  re-  to  havc  lu  the  artist  s  treatment  of  natural  scen- 

spect  to  nature. 

ery. 

I  have  just  said  that  nature  is  always  imaginative,  but  it 
does  not  follow  that  her  imagination  is  always  of  high  sub- 
ject, or  that  the  imagination  of  all  the  parts  is  of  a  like  and 
sympathetic  kind  ;  the  boughs  of  every  bramble  bush  are 
imaginatively  arranged,  so  are  those  of  every  oak  and  cedar  ; 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  there  is  imaginative  sympathy  be- 
tween bramble  and  cedar.  There  are  few  natural  scenes 
whose  harmonies  are  not  conceivably  improvable  either  by 
banishment  of  some  discordant  point,  or  by  addition  of  some 
sympathetic  one  ;  it  constantly  happens  that  there  is  a  pro- 
fuseness  too  great  to  be  comprehended,  or  an  inequality  in 

*  This  ray  of  light,  however,  has  an  imaginative  power  of  another 
kind  presently  to  be  spoken  of.    Compare  Chap.  IV.  §  18. 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


355 


the  pitch,  meaning,  and  intensity  of  different  parts.  The 
imagination  will  banish  all  that  is  extraneous,  it  will  seize 
out  of  the  many  threads  of  different  feeling  which  nature 
has  suffered  to  become  entangled,  one  only,  and  where  that 
seems  thin  and  likely  to  break,  it  will  spin  it  stouter,  and  in 
doing  this,  it  never  knots,  but  weaves  in  the  new  thread,  so 
that  all  its  work  looks  as  pure  and  true  as  nature  itself,  and 
cannot  be  guessed  from  it  but  by  its  exceeding  simplicity, 
{known  from  it,  it  cannot  be,)  so  that  herein  we  j&nd  another 
test  of  the  imaginative  work,  that  it  looks  always  as  if  it  had 
been  gathered  straight  from  nature,  whereas  the  unimagina- 
tive shows  its  joints  and  knots,  and  is  visibly  composition. 

And  here  then  we  arrive  at  an  important  conclusion 
(though  one  somewhat  contrary  to  the  positions  commonly 
held  on  the  subject,)  namely,  that  if  anything  looks  unnat- 
§  22  The  sign  of  ural,  there  can  be  no  imagination  in  it  (at  least 
t'^r^reJ^oe  not  associative.)  We  frequently  hear  works 
of  absolute  truth.  ^^^^  ^^^^      ^j.^^]^  jj^  them,  justified  or  elevated 

on  the  score  of  being  imaginative.  Let  it  be  understood  once 
for  all,  that  imagination  never  designs  to  touch  anything  but 
truth,  and  though  it  does  not  follow  that  where  there  is  the 
appearance  of  truth,  there  has  been  imaginative  operation,  of 
this  we  may  be  assured,  that  where  there  is  appearance  of 
falsehood,  the  imagination  has  had  no  hand.* 

For  instance,  the  landscape  above*  mentioned  of  Titian's 
St.  Jerome  may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  a  pure  transcript  of  a 
rocky  slope  covered  with  chestnuts  aniong  his  native  moun- 
tains. It  has  all  the  look  of  a  sketch  from  nature  ;  if  it  be 
not,  the  imagination  developed  in  it  is  of  the  highest  order  ; 
if  it  be,  the  imagination  has  only  acted  in  the  suggestion  of 
the  dark  sky,  of  the  shape  of  the  flakes  of  solemn  cloud,  and 
of  the  gleam  of  russet  light  along  the  distant  ground.f 

*  Compare  Chap.  III.  §  30. 

f  It  is  said  at  Venice  that  Titian  took  the  trees  of  the  St.  Pietro  Mar- 
tiere  out  of  his  garden  opposite  Murano.  I  think  this  unlikely  ;  there 
is  something  about  the  lower  trunks  that  has  a  taint  of  composition : 
the  thought  of  the  whole,  however,  is  thoroughly  fine.  The  back- 
grouiids  of  the  frescoes  at  Padua  are  also  very  characteristic,  and  the 


356  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


Again,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  whether  the  two  nearest 
trunks  of  the  ^sacus  and  Hesperie  of  the  Liber  Studiorum, 
especially  the  large  one  on  the  right  with  the  ivy,  have  been 
invented,  or  taken  straight  from  nature,  they  have  all  the 
look  of  accurate  portraiture.  I  can  hardly  imagine  anything 
so  perfect  to  have  been  obtained  except  from  the  real  thing  ; 
but  we  know  that  the  imagination  must  have  begun  to  oper- 
ate somewhere,  we  cannot  tell  where,  since  the  multitudinous 
harmonies  of  the  rest  of  the  picture  could  hardly  in  any  real 
scene  have  continued  so  inviolately  sweet. 

The  final  tests,  therefore,  of  the  work  of  associative  imagi- 
nation are  its  intense  simplicity,  its  perfect  harmony,  and  its 
absolute  truth.  It  may  be  a  harmony,  majestic,  or  humble, 
abrupt,  or  prolonged,  but  it  is  always  a  governed  and  perfect 
whole,  evidencing  in  all  its  relations  the  weight,  prevalence, 
and  universal  dominion  of  an  awful,  inexplicable  Power  ;  a 
chastising,  animating,  and  disposing  Mind. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF  IMAGINATION  PENETEATIVB. 

Thus  far  we  have  been  defining  that  combining  operation 
of  the  imagination,  which  appears  to  be  in  a  sort  mechanical, 
yet  takes  place  in  the  same  inexplicable  modes,  whatever  be 
§1.  Imagination  Order  of  Conception  submitted  to  it,  though 
cem'ed''nof'w?th  ^  chosc  to  illustrate  it  by  its  dealings  with  mere 
the  combining  but  matter  before  takin^r  coo-nizance  of  any  nobler 

apprehendmg    of  ^  &       o  J  ^ 

things.  subjects  of  imagery.    We  must  now  examine 

the  dealing  of  the  imagination  with  its  separate  conceptions, 
and  endeavor  to  understand  not  only  its  principles  of  selec- 
tion, but  its  modes  of  apprehension  with  respect  to  what  it 
selects. 

well-known  wood-cut  of  St.  Francis  receiving  the  stigmata,  one  of  the 
mightiest  of  existing  landscape  thoughts  ;  and  yet  it  is  pure  portraiture 
of  pine  and  Spanish  chestnut. 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  357 


When  Milton's  Satan  first  "  rears  from  off  the  pool,  his 
mighty  stature,"  the  image  of  Leviathan  before  suggested 
not  being  yet  abandoned,  the  effect  on  the  fire- 

§  2.  Milton's  and  .-,         'v-i  .CxU  u  j  ^ 

Dante's  descrip-  wave  IS  described  as  oi  the  upheaved  monster 
tion  of  flame.  ^j^^  ocean  Stream. 

On  each  hand  the  flames, 

Driven  backwards,  slope  their  pointiDg  spires,  and  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  in  the  midst  a  horrid  vale." 

And  then  follows  a  fiercely  restless  piece  of  volcanic  im- 
agery : 

As  when  the  force 
Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 
Torn  from  Peloras,  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  ^tna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuell'd  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire. 
Sublimed  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds, 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom,  all  involved 
With  stench  and  smoke ;  such  resting  found  the  sole 
Of  unblest  feet." 

Yet  I  think  all  this  is  too  far  detailed,  and  deals  too  much 
with  externals ;  we  feel  rather  the  form  of  the  fire-waves  than 
their  fury,  we  walk  upon  them  too  securely,  and  the  fuel,  sub- 
limation, smoke,  and  singeing,  seem  to  me  images  only  of 
partial  combustion  ;  they  vary  and  extend  the  conception, 
but  they  lower  the  thermometer.  Look  back,  if  you  will, 
and  add  to  the  description  the  glimmering  of  the  livid  flames  ; 
the  sulphurous  hail  and  red  lightning  ;  yet  altogether,  how- 
ever they  overwhelm  us  with  horror,  fail  of  making  us  thor- 
oughly, unendurably  hot.  The  intense  essence  of  flame  has 
not  been  given.    Now  hear  Dante  : — 

"  Feriami  U  Sole  in  su  Tomero  destro 
Che  gia  raggiando  tutto  TOccidente 
Mutam  in  bianco  aspetto  di  eilestro, 
Ed  10  f  acea  con  Vomhra  piu  rovenie 
Parer  la  fiamma.^'' 

That  is  a  slight  touch  ;  he  has  not  gone  to  ^tna  nor  Pel- 
orus  for  fuel  j  but  we  shall  not  soon  recover  from  it — he  has 


358  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETBATIVE. 


taken  our  breath  away  and  leaves  us  gasping.  No  smoke 
nor  cinders  there.  Pure,  white,  hurtling,  formless  flame  ;  very 
fire  crystal,  we  cannot  make  spires  nor  waves  of  it,  nor  divide 
it,  nor  walk  on  it,  there  is  no  question  about  singeing  soles 
of  feet.    It  is  lambent  annihilation. 

Such  is  always  the  mode  in  which  the  highest  imaginative 
faculty  seizes  its  materials.  It  never  stops  at  crusts  or  ashes, 
or  outward  images  of  any  kind,  it  ploughs  them  all  aside,  and 
§  3.  The  imagina-  pluugcs  iuto  the  Very  Central  fiery  heart,  nothing 
by^the^Tnnermost  ^^^^  ^^^^^  Content  its  Spirituality,  whatever  sem- 
voint.  blances  and  various  outward  shows  and  phases 

its  subject  may  possess,  go  for  nothing,  it  gets  within  all 
fence,  cuts  down  to  the  root,  and  drinks  the  very  vital  sap  of 
that  it  deals  with  ;  once  there  it  is  at  liberty  to  throw  up  what 
new  shoots  it  will,  so  always  that  the  true  juice  and  sap  be 
in  them,  and  to  prune  and  twist  them  at  its  pleasure,  and 
bring  them  to  fairer  fruit  than  grew  on  the  old  tree  ;  but  all 
this  pruning  and  twisting  is  work  that  it  likes  not,  and  often 
does  ill  ;  its  function  and  gift  are  the  getting  at  the  root,  its 
nature  and  dignity  depend  on  its  holding  things  always  by 
the  heart.  Take  its  hand  from  off  the  beating  of  that,  and 
it  will  prophesy  no  longer  ;  it  looks  not  in  the  eyes,  it  judges 
not  by  the  voice,  it  describes  not  by  outward  features,  all 
that  it  affirms,  judges,  or  describes,  it  affirms  from  within. 

It  may  seem  to  the  reader  that  I  am  incorrect  in  calling 
this  penetrating,  possession-taking  faculty,  imagination.  Be 
it  so,  the  name  is  of  little  consequence  ;  the  faculty  itself, 
called  by  what  name  we  will,  I  insist  upon  as 

§  4.  It  acts  intui-     ,  ,  .       „  ,  «  mi 

tively  and  with-  the  highest  intellectual  power  of  man.     I  here 

out  reasoning.       .  .        .      .      .  ^  ,  .    ,         ,  , 

IS  no  reasoning  in  it,  it  works  not  by  algebra, 
nor  by  integral  calculus,  it  is  a  piercing,  Pholas-like  mind's 
tongue  that  works  and  tastes  into  the  very  rock  heart,  no 
matter  what  be  the  subject  submitted  to  it,  substance  or 
spirit,  all  is  alike,  divided  asunder,  joint  and  marrow,  what- 
ever utmost  truth,  life,  principle,  it  has.  laid  bare,  and  that 
which  has  no  truth,  life,  nor  principle,  dissipated  into  its  or- 
iginal smoke  at  a  touch.  The  whispers  at  men's  ears  it  lifts 
into  visible  angels.    Vials  that  have  lain  sealed  in  the  deep 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


359 


sea  a  thousand  years  it  unseals,  and  brings  out  of  them 
Genii. 

Every  great  conception  of  poet  or  painter  is  held  and 
treated  by  this  faculty.  Every  character  that  is  so  much  as 
touched  by  men  like  JEschylus,  Homer,  Dante,  or  Shaks- 
peare,  is  by  them  held  by  the  heart  ;  and  every  circumstance 
or  sentence  of  their  being,  speaking,  or  seeming,  is  seized 
by  process  from  within,  and  is  referred  to  that  inner  secret 
spring  of  which  the  hold  is  never  lost  for  an  instant  ;  so  that 
every  sentence,  as  it  has  been  thought  out  from  the  heart, 
opens  for  us  a  way  down  to  the  heart,  leads  us  to  the  centre, 
and  then  leaves  us  to  gather  what  more  we  may  ;  it  is  the 
open  sesame  of  a  huge,  obscure,  endless  cave,  with  inexhaust- 
ible treasure  of  pure  gold  scattered  in  it :  the  wandering 
about  and  gathering  the  pieces  may  be  left  to  any  of  us,  all 
can  accomplish  that  ;  but  the  first  opening  of  that  invisible 
door  in  the  rock  is  of  the  imagination  only. 

Hence  there  is  in  every  word  set  down  by  the  imaginative 
mind  an  awful  under-current  of  meaning,  and  evidence  and 
shadow  upon  it  of  the  deep  places  out  of  which  it  has  come. 
§  5.  Signs  of  it  oftcu  obscurc,  often  half  told,  for  he  who 

in  language.  wrotc  it,  in  his  clcar  seeing  of  the  things  be- 
neath, may  have  been  impatient  of  detailed  interpretation, 
but  if  we  choose  to  dwell  upon  it  and  trace  it,  it  will  lead  us 
always  securely  back  to  that  metropolis  of  the  soul's  domin- 
ion from  which  we  may  follow  out  all  the  ways  and  tracks 
to  its  farthest  coasts. 

I  think  the  "Quel  giorno  piti  non  vi  leggemmo  avante  "  of 
Francesca  di  Rimini,  and  the  "  He  has  no  children  "  of  Mac- 
duff are  as  fine  instances  as  can  be  given,  but  the  sign  and 
mark  of  it  are  visible  on  every  line  of  the  four  great  men 
above  instanced. 

The  imaginative  writer,  on  the  other  hand,  as  he  has  never 
^  pierced  to  the  heart,  so  he  can  never  touch  it  : 

§6    Absence  ot   ^  .         '  .        ,  ,  , 

imagination,  it  he  has  to  paint  a  passion,  he  remembers  the 

how  shown.  ,      .  p  -       ^  ^^  •  p  ' 

external  signs  oi  it,  he  collects  expressions  oi  it 
from  other  writers,  he  searches  for  similes,  he  composes,  ex- 
aggerates, heaps  term  on  term,  figure  on  figure,  till  we 


360 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


groan  beneath  the  cold,  disjointed  heap  ;  but  it  is  all  faggot 
and  no  fire,  the  life  breath  is  not  in  it,  his  passion  has  the 
form  of  the  Leviathan,  but  it  never  makes  the  deep  boil,  he 
fastens  us  all  at  anchor  in  the  scaly  rind  of  it,  our  sympa- 
thies remain  as  idle  as  a  painted  ship  upon  a  painted  ocean. 

And  that  virtue  of  originality  that  men  so  strain  after,  is 
not  newness,  as  they  vainly  think,  (there  is  nothing  new,)  it 
is  only  genuineness  ;  it  all  depends  on  this  single  glorious 
faculty  of  getting  to  the  spring  of  things  and  working  out 
from  that  ;  it  is  the  coolness,  and  clearness,  and  delicious- 
ness  of  the  water  fresh  from  the  fountain  head,  opposed  to  the 
thick,  hot,  unrefreshing  drainage  from  other  men's  meadows. 

This  freshness,  however,  is  not  to  be  taken  for  an  infallible 
.    .     siffn  of  imasrination,  inasmuch  as  it  results  also 

§7.    Distinction   ^  ,    ,^  ' 

between  imagin-  trom  a  viviQ  Operation  oi  lancy,  whose  parallel 
ation  and  fancy.  ^jj-g  division  of  the  imaginative  fac- 

ulty it  is  here  necessary  to  distinguish. 

I  believe  it  will  be  found  that  the  entirely  unimaginative 
mind  sees  nothing  of  the  object  it  has  to  dwell  upon  or  de- 
scribe, and  is  therefore  utterly  unable,  as  it  is  blind  itself,  to 
set  anything  before  the  eyes  of  the  reader.* 

The  fancy  sees  the  outside,  and  is  able  to  give  a  portrait  of 
the  outside,  clear,  brilliant,  and  full  of  detail. f 

The  imagination  sees  the  heart  and  inner  nature,  and  makes 
them  felt,  but  is  often  obscure,  mysterious,  and  interrupted, 
in  its  giving  of  outer  detail. 

Take  an  instance.    A  writer  with  neither  imagination  nor 
fancy,  describing  a  fair  lip,  does  not  see  it,  but  thinks  about 
it,  and  about  what  is  said  of  it,  and  calls  it  well-turned,  or 
rosy,  or  delicate,  or  lovely,  or  afflicts  us  with  some  other 
quenching  and  chilling  epithet.    Now  hear  fancy  speak, — 
'  *  Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly."  X 

*  Compare  Arist.  Rhet.  III.  11. 

f  For  the  distinction  between  fancy  and  simple  conception,  see  Chap. 
IV.  §  3. 

X I  take  this  and  the  next  instance  from  Leigh  Hunt's  admirable  piece 
of  criticism,     Imagination  and  Fancy,''  which  ought  to  be  read  with 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


361 


The  real,  red,  bright  being  of  the  lip  is  there  in  a  moment. 
But  it  is  all  outside  ;  no  expression  yet,  no  mind,  Let  us  go 
a  step  farther  with  Warner,  of  fair  Rosamond  struck  by 
Eleanor. 

"  With  that  she  dashed  her  on  the  lips 
So  dyed  double  red  ; 
Hard  was  the  heart  that  gave  the  blow, 
Soft  were  those  lips  that  bled." 

The  tenderness  of  mind  begins  to  mingle  with  the  outside 
color,  the  imagination  is  seen  in  its  awakening.  Next  Shel- 
ley— 

Lamp  of  life,  thy  lips  are  burning 
Through  the  veil  that  seems  to  hide  them, 
As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 
Through  thin  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them." 

There  dawns  the  entire  soul  in  that  morning  ;  yet  we  may 
stop  if  we  choose  at  the  image  still  external,  at  the  crimson 
clouds.  The  imagination  is  contemplative  rather  than  pene- 
trative.   Last,  hear  Hamlet, — 

Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed,  I  know  not  how 
oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now,  your  gambols,  your  songs, 
your  flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on 
a  roar  ?  " 

There  is  the  essence  of  lip,  and  the  full  power  of  the  im- 
agination. 

Again,  compare  Milton's  flowers  in  Lycidas  with  Perdita's. 
In  Milton  it  happens,  I  think,  generally,  and  in  the  case  be- 
fore us  most  certainly,  that  the  imagination  is  mixed  and 
broken  with  fancy,  and  so  the  strength  of  the  imagery  is 
part  of  iron  and  part  of  clay. 

care,  and  to  which,  though  somewhat  loosely  arranged,  I  may  refer  for 
all  the  filling  up  and  illustration  that  the  subject  requires.  With  re- 
spect to  what  has  just  been  said  respecting  want  of  imagination,  com- 
pare his  criticism  of  Addison's  Cato,  p.  28.  I  cannot,  however,  confirm 
his  judgment,  nor  admit  his  selection  of  instances,  among  painters  :  he 
has  looked  to  their  manner  only  and  habitual  choice  of  subject,  without 
feeling  their  power  ;  and  has  given  work  to  the  coarseness,  mindlessness, 
and  eclecticism  of  Guido  and  the  Carracci,  which  in  its  poetical  de- 
mand of  tenderness  might  have  foiled  Pinturicchio.;  of  dignity,  Leo- 
nardo ;  and  of  color,  Giorgione. 


363  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


Bring  the  rathe  primrose,  that  forsaken  dies  (Imagination) 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine,  (Nugatory) 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, —  (Fancy) 

The  glowing  violet,  (Imagination) 

The  musk  rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine,  (Fancy,  vulgar) 

With  cowslips  wan,  that  hang  the  pensive  head,  (Imagination) 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears."  (Mixed) 

Then  hear  Perdita  : — 

O,  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon.  Daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty.    Violets,  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath ;  pale  primroses 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids." 

Observe  how  the  imagination  in  these  last  lines  goes  into 
the  very  inmost  soul  of  every  flower,  after  having  touched 
them  all  at  first  with  that  heavenly  timidness,  the  shadow  of 
Proserpine's  ;  and  gilded  them  with  celestial  gathering,  and 
never  stops  on  their  spots,  or  their  bodily  shape,  while  Mil- 
ton sticks  in  the  stains  upon  them,  and  puts  us  off  with  that 
unhappy  freak  of  jet  in  the  very  flower  that  without  this  bit 
of  paper-staining  would  have  been  the  most  precious  to  us 
of  all.    "  There  is  pansies,  that's  for  thoughts." 

So  I  believe  it  will  be  found  throughout  the  operation  of 
the  fancy,  that  it  has  to  do  with  the  outsides  of  things,  and 
is  content  therewith  :  of  this  there  can  be  no  doubt  in  such 
§  8  Fancy  how  P^^'^^S^'^  thsit  description  of  Mab,  so  often 
involved  with  im-  given  as  an  illustration  of  it,  and  many  other 
instances  will  be  found  in  Leigh  Hunt's  work 
already  referred  to.  Only  some  embarrassment  is  caused  by 
passages  in  which  fancy^is  seizing  the  outward  signs  of  emo- 
tion, understanding  them  as  such,  and  yet,  in  pursuance  of 
her  proper  function,  taking  for  her  share,  and  for  that  which 
she  chooses  to  dwell  upon,  the  outside  sign  rather  than  the 
emotion.    Note  in  Macbeth  that  brilliant  instance. 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  363 


Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  people  cold." 

The  outward  shiver  and  coldness  of  fear  is  seized  on,  and 
irregularly  but  admirably  attributed  by  the  fancy  to  the 
drift  of  the  banners.  Compare  Solomon's  Song  where  the 
imagination  stays  not  at  the  outside,  but  dwells  on  the  fear- 
ful emotion  itself  ? 

Who  is  she  that  looked  forth  as  the  morning ;  fair  as  the  naoon, 
clear  as  the  sun,  and  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners  ?  " 

Now,  if  this  be  the  prevailing  characteristic  of  the  two 
faculties,  it  is  evident  that  certain  other  collateral  differences 
will  result  from  it.  Fancy,  as  she  stays  at  the  externals,  can 
§  9.  Fancy  is  never  feel.  She  is  one  of  the  hardest  hearted  of 
never  serious.  intellectual  faculties,  or  rather  one  of  the 

most  purely  and  simply  intellectual.  She  cannot  be  made 
serious,*  no  edge-tools  but  she  will  play  with  ;  whereas  the 
imagination  is  in  all  things  the  reverse.  She  cannot  be 
but  serious  ;  she  sees  too  far,  too  darkly,  too  solemnly,  too 
earnestly,  ever  to  smile.  There  is  something  in  the  heart  of 
everything,  if  we  can  reach  it,  that  we  shall  not  be  inclined  to 
laugh  at.  The  dvi^pLOfxov  yiXao-fjia  of  the  sea  is  on  its  surface, 
not  in  the  deep. 

And  thus  there  is  reciprocal  action  between  the  intensity 
of  moral  feeling  and  the  power  of  imagination  ;  for,  on  the 
one  hand,  those  who  have  keenest  sympathy  are  those  who 
§  10.  Want  of  ^^^^  closest  and  pierce  deepest,  and  hold  se- 
seriousness  the  curesti  and,  on  the  other,  those  who  have  so 

bar  to  high  art      ,  '  '  ^ 

time*^^  pj^esent  pierced  and  seen  the  melancholy  deeps  of  things, 
are  filled  with  the  most  intense  passion  and  gen- 
tleness of  sympathy.  Hence,  I  suppose  that  the  powers  of 
the  imagination  may  always  be  tested  by  accompanying  ten- 
derness of  emotion,  and  thus,  ^as  Byron  said,)  there  is  no 
tenderness  like  Dante's,  neither  any  intensity  nor  serious- 
ness like  his,  such  seriousness  that  it  is  incapable  of  perceiv- 
ing that  which  is  commonplace  or  ridiculous,  but  fuses  all 

*  Fancy,  in  her  third  function  may,  however,  become  serious,  and 
gradually  rise  into  imagination  in  doing  so.    Compare  Chap.  IV.  §  5. 


364 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


down  into  its  white-hot  fire  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  sup- 
pose the  chief  bar  to  the  action  of  imagination,  and  stop  to 
all  greatness  in  this  present  age  of  ours,  is  its  mean  and  shal- 
low love  of  jest  and  jeer,  so  that  if  there  be  in  any  good  and 
lofty  work  a  flaw  or  failing,  or  undipped  vulnerable  part 
where  sarcasm  may  stick  or  stay,  it  is  caught  at,  and  pointed 
at,  and  buzzed  about,  and  fixed  upon,  and  stung  into,  as  a 
recent  wound  is  by  flies,  and  nothing  is  ever  taken  seriously 
nor  as  it  was  meant,  but  always,  if  it  may  be,  turned  the 
wrong  way,  and  misunderstood  ;  and  while  this  is  so,  there 
is  not,  nor  cannot  be  any  hope  of  achievement  of  high  things; 
men  dare  not  open  their  hearts  to  us,  if  we  are  to  broil  them 
on  a  thorn-fire. 

This,  then,  is  one  essential  difference  between  imagination 
and  fancy,  and  another  is  like  it  and  resultant  from  it,  that 
the  imagination  being  at  the  heart  of  things,  poises  herself 
§  11    imagina-  ^ti\\  quiet,  and  brooding  ;  compre- 

nationis  quiet;  hendinsT  all  around  her  with  her  fixed  look,  but 

fancy,  restless.        i      «  •  i  •  i       /.     i  • 

the  fancy  staying  at  the  outside  of  things,  can- 
not see  them  all  at  once,  but  runs  hither  and  thither,  and 
round  and  about  to  see  more  and  more,  bounding  merrily 
from  point  to  point,  and  glittering  here  and  there,  but  neces- 
sarily always  settling,  if  she  settle  at  all,  on  a  point  only, 
never  embracing  the  whole.  And  from  these  single  points 
she  can  strike  out  analogies  and  catch  resemblances,  which, 
so  far  as  the  point  she  looks  at  is  concerned,  are  true,  but 
would  be  false,  if  she  could  see  through  to  the  other  side. 
This,  however,  she  cares  not  to  do,  the  point  of  contact  is 
enough  for  her,  and  even  if  there  be  a  gap  left  between  the 
two  things  and  they  do  not  quite  touch,  she  will  spring  from 
one  to  the  other  like  an  electric  spark,  and  be  seen  brightest 
in  her  leaping. 

Now  these  differences  between  the  imagination  and  the 
„  ^„  ^     fancy  hold,  not  onlv  in  the  way  they  lay  hold  of 

§  12.    The  de-  '  .     -  ^  . 

tailing  operation  separate  Conceptions,  but  even  in  the  points  they 

of  fancy.  ^  i      /.  i-i 

occupy  of  time,  for  the  fancy  loves  to  run  hither 
and  thither  in  time,  and  to  follow  long  chains  of  circum- 
stances from  link  to  link  ;  but  the  imagination,  if  it  may, 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


365 


gets  holds  of  a  moment  or  link  in  the  middle  that  implies  all 
the  rest,  and  fastens  there.  Hence  Fuseli's  aphorism,  In- 
vention never  suffers  the  action  to  expire,  nor  the  spectator's 
fancy  to  consume  itself  in  preparation,  or  stagnate  into  re- 
pose. It  neither  begins  from  the  egg,  nor  coldly  gathers  the 
remains." 

In  Retsch's  illustrations  to  Schiller's  Kampf  mit  dem  Dra- 
chen,  we  have  an  instance,  miserably  feeble  indeed,  but  char- 
acteristic, and  suited  to  our  present  purpose,  of  the  detail- 
ing, finishing  action  of  the  fancy.  The  dragon  is  drawn  from 
head  to  tail,  vulture  eyes,  serpent  teeth,  forked  tongue,  fiery 
crest,  armor,  claws  and  coils  as  grisly  as  may  be  ;  his  den  is 
drawn,  and  all  the  dead  bones  in  it,  and  all  the  savage  for- 
est-country about  it  far  and  wide  ;  we  have  him  from  the 
beginning  of  his  career  to  the  end,  devouring,  rampant,  vic- 
torious over  whole  armies,  gorged  with  death  ;  we  are  pres- 
ent at  all  the  preparations  for  his  attack,  see  him  receive  his 
death-wound,  and  our  anxieties  are  finally  becalmed  by  see- 
ing him  lie  peaceably  dead  on  his  back. 

All  the  time  we  have  never  got  into  the  dragon  heart,  we 
have  never  once  felt  real  pervading  horror,  nor  sense  of  the 
creature's  being  ;  it  is  throughout  nothing  but  an  ugly  com- 
13  And  su  position  of  claw  and  scale.  Now  take  up  Tur- 
gcstiye,  of  the  ncr's  Jason,  Liber  Studiorum,  and  observe  how 
imagination.  imagination  can  concentrate  all  this,  and  in- 

finitely more,  into  one  moment.  No  far  forest  country,  no 
secret  paths,  nor  cloven  hills,  nothing  but  a  gleam  of  pale 
horizontal  sky,  that  broods  over  pleasant  places  far  away, 
and  sends  in,  through  the  wild  overgrowth  of  the  thicket,  a 
ray  of  broken  daylight  into  the  hopeless  pit.  No  flaunting 
plumes  nor  brandished  lances,  but  stern  purpose  in  the  turn 
of  the  crestless  helmet,  visible  victory  in  the  drawing  back 
of  the  prepared  right  arm  behind  the  steady  point.  No  more 
claws,  nor  teeth,  nor  manes,  nor  stinging  tails.  We  have 
the  dragon,  like  everything  else,  by  the  middle.  We  need 
see  no  more  of  him.  All  his  horror  is  in  that  fearful,  slow, 
grinding  upheaval  of  the  single  coil.  Spark  after  spark  of 
it,  ring  after  ring,  is  sliding  into  the  light,  the  slow  glitter 


366  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


steals  along  him  step  by  step,  broader  and  broader,  a  light- 
ing of  funeral  lamps  one  by  one,  quicker  and  quicker  ;  a  mo- 
ment more,  and  he  is  out  upon  us,  all  crash  and  blaze  among 
those  broken  trunks  ; — but  he  will  be  nothing  then  to  what 
he  is  now. 

Now,  it  is  necessary  here  very  carefully  to  distinguish  be- 
tween that  character  of  the  work  which  depends  on  the  im- 
agination of  the  beholder,  and  that  which  results  from  the 
§14.  This  Bug-  imagination  of  the  artist,  for  a  work  is  often 
oppoIeTto  ^va^  Called  imaginative  when  it  merely  leaves  room 
^^'^^y-  for  the  action  of  the  imagination  ;  whereas 

though  nearly  all  imaginative  works  do  this,  yet  it  may  be 
done  also  by  works  that  have  in  them  no  imagination  at  all. 
A  few  shapeless  scratches  or  accidental  stains  on  a  wall  ;  or 
the  forms  oi  clouds,  or  any  other  complicated  accidents,  will 
set  the  imao-ination  to  work  to  coin  somethinor  out  of  them, 
and  all  paintings  in  which  there  is  much  gloom  or  mystery, 
possess  therein  a  certain  sublimity  owing  to  the  play 
given  to  the  beholder's  imagination,  without,  necessarily, 
being  in  the  slightest  degree  imaginative  themselves.  The 
vacancy  of  a  truly  imaginative  work  results  not  from 
absence  of  ideas,  or  incapability  of  grasping  and  detailing 
them,  but  from  the  painter  having  told  the  whole  pith  and 
power  of  his  subject  and  disdaining  to  tell  more,  and  the 
sign  of  this  being  the  case  is,  that  the  imagination  of  the  be- 
holder is  forced  to  act  in  a  certain  mode,  and  feels  itself  over- 
powered and  borne  away  by  that  of  the  painter,  and  not  able 
to  defend  itself,  nor  go  which  way  it  will,  and  the  value  of 
the  work  depends  on  the  truth,  authority,  and  inevitability  of 
this  suggestiveness,  and  on  the  absolute  right  choice  of  the 
critical  moment.  Now  observe  in  this  work  of  Turner's,  that 
the  whole  value  of  it  depends  on  the  character  of  curve  as- 
sumed by  the  serpent's  body  ;  for  had  it  been  a  mere  semi- 
circle, or  gone  down  in  a  series  of  smaller  coils,  it  would  have 
been  in  the  first  case,  ridiculous,  as  false  and  unlike  a  ser- 
pent, and  in  the  second,  disgusting,  nothing  more  than  an 
exaggerated  viper,  but  it  is  that  coming  straight  at  the  right 
hand  which  suggests  the  drawing  forth    of  an  enormous 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


367 


weight,  and  gives  the  bent  part  its  springing  look,  that  fright- 
ens us.  Again,  remove  the  light  trunk  *  on  the  left,  and 
observe  how  useless  all  the  gloom  of  the  picture  would  have 
been,  if  this  trunk  had  not  given  it  depth  and  holloioness. 
Finally  and  chiefly,  observe  that  the  painter  is  not  satisfied 
even  with  all  the  suggestiveness  thus  obtained,  but  to  make 
sure  of  us,  and  force  us,  whether  we  will  or  no,  to  walk  his 
way,  and  not  ours,  the  trunks  of  the  trees  on  the  right  are 
all  cloven  into  yawning  and  writhing  heads  and  bodies, 
and  alive  with  dragon  energy  all  about  us,  note  espe- 
cially the  nearest  with  its  gaping  jaws  and  claw-like  branch 
at  the  seeming  shoulder  ;  a  kind  of  suggestion  which  in  it- 
self is  not  imaginative,  but  merely  fanciful,  (using  the  term 
fancy  in  that  third  sense  not  yet  explained,  corresponding 
to  the  third  office  of  imagination  ;)  but  it  is  imaginative  in 
its  present  use  and  application,  for  the  painter  addresses 
thereby  that  morbid  and  fearful  condition  of  mind  which  he 
has  endeavored  to  excite  in  the  spectator,  and  which  in  real- 
ity would  have  seen  in  every  trunk  and  bough,  as  it  pene- 
trated into  the  deeper  thicket,  the  object  of  its  terror. 

It  is  nevertheless  evident,  that  however  suggestive  the  work 
or  picture  may  be,  it  cannot  have  effect  unless  we  are  our- 
selves both  watchful  of  its  very  hint,  and  capable  of  under- 
§15  Imagination  ^^^'^^^'^^  Carrying  it  out,  and  although  I 
addresses  itself  to  thiiik  that  this  DOwcr  of  Continuing"  or  accept- 

iraagination,  .  /  /.pt  •  •  ^ 

mg  the  direction  of  feeling  given  is  less  a 
peculiar  gift,  like  that  of  the  original  seizing,  than  a  faculty 
dependent  on  attention,  and  improvable  by  cultivation  ;  yet, 
to  a  certain  extent,  the  imaginative  work  will  not,  I  think, 
be  rightly  esteemed  except  by  a  mind  of  some  correspond- 
ing power  ;  not  but  that  there  is  an  intense  enjoyment  in 
minds  of  feeble  yet  light  conception  in  the  help  and  food 
they  get  from  those  of  stronger  thought  ;  but  a  certain  im- 
aginative susceptibility  is  at  any  rate  necessary,  and  above 
all  things,  earnestness  and  feeling,  so  that  assuredly  a  work  of 
high  conceptive  dignity  will  be  always  incomprehensible  and 

*  I  am  describing  from  a  proof  :  in  bad  impressions  this  trunk  is 
darkened. 


368  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


valueless  except  in  those  who  go  to  it  in  earnest  and  give  it 
time  ;  and  this  is  peculiarly  the  case  when  the  imagination 
acts  not  merely  on  the  immediate  subject,  nor  in  giving  a 
fanciful  and  peculiar  character  to  prominent  objects,  as  we 
Instances  from  ^^^^  3^^^  sccn,  but  busics  itsclf  throughout  in 
the  works  of  Tin-  expressing  occult  and  far-sought  sympathies  in 
every  minor  detail,  of  which  action  the  most 
sublime  instances  are  found  in  the  works  of  Tintoret,  whose 
intensity  of  imagination  is  such  that  there  is  not  the  com- 
monest subject  to  which  he  will  not  attach  a  range  of  sug- 
gestiveness  almost  limitless,  nor  a  stone,  leaf,  or  shadow,  nor 
anything  so  small,  but  he  will  give  it  meaning  and  oracular 
voice. 

In  the  centre  of  the  gallery  at  Parma,  there  is  a  canvas  of 
Tintoret's,  whose  sublimity  of  conception  and  grandeur  of 
color  are  seen  in  the  highest  perfection,  by  their  opposition 
§16  The  Entomb-  morbid  and  vulgar  sentimentalism  of 

Correggio.  It  is  an  Entombment  of  Christ, 
with  a  landscape  distance,  of  whose  technical  composition 
and  details  I  shall  have  much  to  say  hereafter,  at  present  I 
speak  only  of  the  thought  it  is  intended  to  convey.  An 
ordinary  or  unimaginative  painter  would  have  made  promi- 
nent, among  his  objects  of  landscape,  such  as  might  natural- 
ly be  supposed  to  have  been  visible  from  the  sepulchre,  and 
shown  with  the  crosses  of  Calvary,  some  portion  of  Jeru- 
salem, or  of  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  But  Tintoret  has  a 
far  higher  aim.  Dwelling  on  the  peculiar  force  of  the  event 
before  him,  as  the  fulfilment  of  the  final  prophecy  respecting 
the  passion,  "  He  made  his  grave  with  the  wicked  and  with 
the  rich  in  his  death,"  he  desires  to  direct  the  mind  of  the 
spectator  to  this  receiving  of  the  body  of  Christ,  in  its  con- 
trast with  the  houseless  birth  and  the  desert  life.  And, 
therefore,  behind  the  ghastly  tomb-grass  that  shakes  its 
black  and  withered  blades  above  the  rocks  of  the  sepulchre, 
there  is  seen,  not  the  actual  material  distance  of  the  spot  it- 
self, (though  the  crosses  are  shown  faintly,)  but  that  to  which 
the  thoughtful  spirit  would  return  in  vision,  a  desert  place, 
where  the  foxes  have  holes  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


369 


nests,  and  against  the  barred  twilight  of  the  melancholy  sky 
are  seen  the  mouldering  beams  and  shattered  roofing  of  a 
ruined  cattle-shed,  the  canopy  of  the  nativity. 

Let  us  take  another  instance.  No  subject  has  been  more 
frequently  or  exquisitely  treated  by  the  religious  painters 
than  that  of  the  Annunciation,  though  as  usual,  the  most 
§  17.  The  Annun-  perfect  type  of  its  pure  ideal  has  been  given  by 
ciation.  Angelico,  and  by  him  with  the  most  radiant 

consummation  (so  far  as  I  know)  in  a  small  reliquary  in  the 
sacristy  of  St^.  Maria  Novella.  The  background  there,  how- 
ever, is  altogether  decorative  ;  but  in  the  fresco  of  the  cor- 
ridor of  St.  Mark's,  the  concomitant  circumstances  are  of 
exceeding  loveliness.  The  Virgin  sits  in  an  open  loggia, 
resembling  that  of  the  Florentine  church  of  L'Annunziata. 
Before  her  is  a  meadow  of  rich  herbage,  covered  with  daisies. 
Behind  her  is  seen  through  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  loggia, 
her  chamber  with  its  single  grated  window,  through  which 
a  star-light  beam  of  light  falls  into  the  silence.  All  is  ex- 
quisite in  feeling,  but  not  inventive  nor  imaginative.  Severe 
would  be  the  shock  and  painful  the  contrast,  if  we  could  pass 
in  an  instant  from  that  pure  vision  to  the  wild  thought  of 
Tintoret.  For  not  in  meek  reception  of  the  adoring  mes- 
senger, but  startled  by  the  rush  of  his  horizontal  and  rattling 
wings,  the  virgin  sits,  not  in  the  quiet  loggia,  not  by  the 
green  pasture  of  the  restored  soul,  but  houseless,  under  the 
shelter  of  a  palace  vestibule  ruined  and  abandoned,  with  the 
noise  of  the  axe  and  the  hammer  in  her  ears,  and  the  tumult 
of  a  city  round  about  her  desolation.  The  spectator  turns 
away  at  first,  revolted,  from  the  central  object  of  the  picture, 
forced  painfully  and  coarsely  forward,  a  mass  of  shattered 
brickwork,  with  the  plaster  mildewed  away  from  it,  and  the 
mortar  mouldering  from  its  seams  ;  and  if  he  look  again,  either 
at  this  or  at  the  carpenter's  tools  beneath  it,  will  perhaps  see 
in  the  one  and  the  other,  nothing  more  than  such  a  study  of 
scene  as  Tintoret  could  but  too  easily  obtain  among  the  ruins 
of  his  own  Venice,  chosen  to  give  a  coarse  explanation  of 
the  calling  and  the  condition  of  the  husband  of  Mary.  But 
there  is  more  meant  than  this.  When  he  looks  at  the  com- 
VoL.  II.— 24 


370  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


position  of  the  picture,  he  will  find  the  whole  symmetry  of  it 
depending  on  a  narrow  line  of  light,  the  edge  of  a  carpen- 
ter's square,  which  connects  these  unused  tools  with  an  ob- 
ject at  the  top  of  the  brickwork,  a  white  stone,  four  square, 
the  corner-stone  of  the  old  edifice,  the  base  of  its  supporting 
column.  This,  I  think,  sufficiently  explains  the  typical  char- 
acter of  the  whole.  The  ruined  house  is  the  Jewish  dispen- 
sation, that  obscurely  arising  in  the  dawning  of  the  sky  is 
the  Christian  ;  but  the  corner-stone  of  the  old  building  re- 
mains, though  the  builder's  tools  lie  idle  beside  it,  and  the 
stone  which  the  builders  refused  is  become  the  Headstone 
of  the  corner. 

In  this  picture,  however,  the  force  of  the  thought  hardly 
atones  for  the  painfulness  of  the  scene  and  the  turbulence  of 
its  feeling.  The  power  of  the  master  is  more  strikingly  shown 
§  18.  The  Bap-  treatment  of  a  subject  which,  however  im- 

itstreatmenrby  po^tant,  and  howcvcr  deep  in  its  meaning,  sup- 
various  painters.  pHes  not  to  the  Ordinary  painter  material  enough 
ever  to  form  a  picture  of  high  interest  ;  the  Baptism  of  Christ. 
From  the  purity  of  Giotto  to  the  intolerable,  inconceivable 
brutality  of  Salvator,*  every  order  of  feeling  has  been  dis- 
played in  its  treatment  ;  but  I  am  aware  of  no  single  case, 
except  this  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak,  in  which  it  has 
formed  an  impressive  picture. 

Giotto's,  in  the  Academy  of  Florence,  engraved  in  the 
series  just  published,  (Galleria  delle  belle  Arti,)  is  one  of  the 
most  touching  I  know,  especially  in  the  reverent  action  of 
the  attendant  angels,  and  Leonardo's  angel  in  that  of  Andrea 
del  Verrocchio  is  very  beautiful,  but  the  event  is  one  whose 
character  and  importance  are  ineffable  upon  the  features  :  the 

*  The  picture  is  in  the  Guadagni  palace.  It  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant landscapes  Salvator  ever  painted.  The  figures  are  studied  from 
street  beggars.  On  the  one  side  of  the  river,  exactly  opposite  the  point 
where  the  Baptism  of  Christ  takes  place,  the  painter,  with  a  refinement 
of  feeling  peculiarly  his  own,  has  introduced  some  ruffians  stripping  off 
their  shirts  to  bathe.  He  is  fond  of  this  incident.  It  occurs  again  in 
one  of  the  marines  of  the  Pitti  palace,  with  the  additional  interest  of  a 
foreshortened  figure,  swimming  on  its  back,  feet  foremost,  exactly  in 
the  stream  of  light  to  which  the  eye  is  principally  directed. 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


371 


descending  dove  hardly  affects  us,  because  its  constant  sym- 
bolical occurrence  hardens  us,  and  makes  us  look  on  it  as  a 
mere  type  or  letter,  instead  of  the  actual  presence  of  the 
Spirit  ;  and  by  all  the  sacred  painters  the  power  that  might 
be  put  into  the  landscape  is  lost,  for  though  their  use  of  foli- 
age and  distant  sky  or  mountain  is  usually  very  admirable, 
as  we  shall  see  in  the  fifth  chapter,  yet  they  cannot  deal  with 
near  water  or  rock,  and  the  hexagonal  and  basaltic  protuber- 
ances of  their  river  shore  are  I  think  too  painful  to  be  endured 
even  by  the  most  acceptant  mind,  as  eminently  in  that  of 
Angelico,  in  the  Vita  di  Christo,  which,  as  far  as  I  can  judge, 
is  a  total  failure  in  action,  expression,  and  all  else  ;  and  in 
general  it  is  in  this  subject  especially,  that  the  greatest  paint- 
ers show  their  weakness.  For  this  reason,  I  suppose,  and 
feeling  the  difficulty  of  it,  Tintoret  has  thrown  into  it  his  ut- 
most strength,  and  it  becomes  noble  in  his  hands  by  his  most 
singularly  imaginative  expression,  not  only  of  the  immediate 
fact,  but  of  the  whole  train  of  thought  of  which  it  is  sugges- 
tive ;  and  by  his  considering  the  baptism  not  only  as  the 
submission  of  Christ  to  the  fulfilment  of  all  righteousness, 
but  as  the  opening  of  the  earthly  struggle  with  the  prince 
of  the  powers  of  the  air,  which  instantly  beginning  in  the 
temptation,  ended  only  on  the  cross. 

The  river  flows  fiercely  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock. 
From  its  opposite  shore,  thickets  of  close,  gloomy  foliage  rise 
against  the  rolling  chasm  of  heaven,  through  which  breaks 
19  B  T' t  t  brightness  of  the  descending  Spirit.  Across 
'  these,  dividing  them  asunder,  is  stretched  a  hori- 
zontal floor  of  flaky  cloud,  on  which  stand  the  hosts  of  heaven. 
Christ  kneels  upon  the  water,  and  does  not  sink  ;  the  figure 
of  St.  John  is  indistinct,  but  close  beside  his  raised  right  arm 
there  is  a  spectre  in  the  black  shade  ;  the  fiend,  harpy -shaped, 
hardly  seen,  glares  down  upon  Christ  with  eyes  of  fire,  wait- 
ing his  time.  Beneath  this  figure  there  comes  out  of  the  mist 
a  dark  hand,  the  arm  unseen,  extended  to  a  net  in  the  river, 
the  spars  of  which  are  in  the  shape  of  a  cross.  Behind  this 
the  roots  and  under  stems  of  the  trees  are  cut  away  by  the 
cloud,  and  beneath  it,  and  through  them,  is  seen  a  vision  of 


373 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


wild,  melancholy,  boundless  light,  the  sweep  of  the  desert, 
and  the  figure  of  Christ  is  seen  therein  alone,  with  his  arms 
lifted  as  in  supplication  or  ecstacy,  borne  of  the  Spirit  into 
the  wilderness  to  be  tempted  of  the  devil. 

There  are  many  circumstances  which  combine  to  give  to 
this  noble  work  a  more  than  usually  imaginative  character. 
The  symbolical  use  of  the  net,  which  is  the  cross  net  still 
used  constantly  in  the  canals  of  Venice,  and  common  through- 
out Italy,  is  of  the  same  character  as  that  of  the  carpenter's 
tools  in  the  Annunciation  ;  but  the  introduction  of  the  spec- 
tral figure  is  of  bolder  reach,  and  yet  more,  that  vision  of  the 
after  temptation  which  is  expressly  indicated  as  a  subject  of 
thought  rather  than  of  sight,  because  it  is  in  a  part  of  the 
scene,  which  in  fact  must  have  been  occupied  by  the  trunks 
of  the  trees  whose  tops  are  seen  above  ;  and  another  circum- 
stance completes  the  mystic  character  of  the  whole,  that  the 
flaky  clouds  which  support  the  angelic  hosts  take  on  the 
right,  where  the  light  first  falls  upon  them,  the  shape  of  the 
head  of  a  fish,  the  well-known  type  both  of  the  baptismal 
sacrament,  and  of  Christ. 

But  the  most  exquisite  instance  of  this  imaginative  power 
occurs  in  an  incident  in  the  background  of  the  Crucifixion. 
I  will  not  insult  this  marvellous  picture  by  an  effort  at  a 
§  20.  The  Cruci-  verbal  account  of  it.  I  would  not  whitewash  it 
fixion.  with  praise,  and  I  refer  to  it  only  for  the  sake 

of  two  thoughts  peculiarly  illustrative  of  the  intellectual  fac- 
ulty immediately  under  discussion.  In  the  common  and  most 
catholic  treatment  of  the  subject,  the  mind  is  either  painfully 
directed  to  the  bodily  agony,  coarsely  expressed  by  outward 
anatomical  signs,  or  else  it  is  permitted  to  rest  on  that  coun- 
tenance inconceivable  by  man  at  any  time,  but  chiefly  so  in 
this  its  consummated  humiliation.  In  the  first  case,  the  rep- 
resentation is  revolting  ;  in  the  second,  inefficient,  false,  and 
sometimes  blasphemous.  None  even  of  the  greatest  religious 
painters  have  ever,  so  far  as  I  know,  succeeded  here  ;  Giotto 
and  Angelico  were  cramped  by  the  traditional  treatment,  and 
the  latter  especially,  as  before  observed,  is  but  too  apt  to  in- 
dulge in  those  points  of  vitiated  feeling  which  attained  their 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


373 


worst  development  among  the  Byzantines  :  Perugino  fails  in 
his  Christ  in  almost  every  instance  (of  other  men  than  these 
after  them  v/e  need  not  speak.)  But  Tintoret  here,  as  in  all 
other  cases,  penetrating  into  the  root  and  deep  places  of  his 
subject,  despising  all  outward  and  bodily  appearances  of  pain, 
and  seeking  for  some  means  of  expressing,  not  the  rack  of 
nerve  or  sinew,  but  the  fainting  of  the  deserted  Son  of  God 
before  his  Eloi  cry,  and  yet  feeling  himself  utterly  unequal 
to  the  expression  of  this  by  the  countenance,  has  on  the  one 
hand  filled  his  picture  with  such  various  and  impetuous  mus- 
cular exertion  that  the  body  of  the  Crucified  is,  by  compari- 
son, in  perfect  repose,  and  on  the  other  has  cast  the  counte- 
nance altogether  into  shade.  But  the  agony  is  told  by  this, 
and  by  this  only,  that  though  there  yet  remains  a  chasm  of 
light  on  the  mountain  horizon  where  the  earthquake  dark- 
ness closes  upon  the  day,  the  broad  and  sunlike  glory  about 
the  head  of  the  Redeemer  has  become  wan,  and  of  the  color 
of  ashes.* 

But  the  great  painter  felt  he  had  something  more  to  do 
yet.  Not  only  that  agony  of  the  Crucified,  but  the  tumult 
of  the  people,  that  rage  which  invoked  his  blood  upon  them 
and  their  children.  Not  only  the  brutality  of  the  soldier, 
the  apathy  of  the  centurion,  nor  any  other  merely  instru- 
mental cause  of  the  Divine  suffering,  but  the  fury  of  his  own 
people,  the  noise  against  him  of  those  for  whom  he  died, 
were  to  be  set  before  the  eye  of  the  understanding,  if  the 
power  of  the  picture  was  to  be  complete.  This  rage,  be  it 
remembered,  was  one  of  disappointed  pride  ;  and  the  dis- 
appointment dated  essentially  from  the  time,  when  but  five 
days  before,  the  King  of  Zion  came,  and  was  received  with 
hosannahs,  riding  upon  an  ass,  and  a  colt  the  foal  of  an  ass. 
To  this  time,  then,  it  was  necessary  to  direct  the  thoughts, 
for  therein  are  found  both  the  cause  and  the  character,  the 
excitement  of,  and  the  witness  against,  this  madness  of  the 

*  This  circumstance,  like  most  that  lie  not  at  the  surface,  has  escaped 
Fuseli,  though  his  remarks  on  the  general  tone  of  the  picture  are  very- 
good,  as  well  as  his  opposition  of  it  to  the  treatment  of  Rubens.  (Lect- 
ure IX.) 


374  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETEATIVE. 


people.  In  the  shadow  behind  the  cross,  a  man,  riding  on 
an  ass  colt,  looks  back  to  the  multitude,  while  he  points 
with  a  rod  to  the  Christ  crucified.  The  ass  is  feeding  on  the 
remnants  of  withered  palm-leaves. 

With  this  master-stroke  I  believe  I  may  terminate  all  illus- 
tration of  the  peculiar  power  of  the  imagination  over  the 
feelings  of  the  spectator,  by  the  elevation  into  dignity  and 
meaning  of  the  smallest  accessory  circumstances.  But  I 
have  not  yet  sufficiently  dwelt  on  the  fact  from  which  this 
power  arises,  the  absolute  truth  of  statement  of  the  central 
fact  as  it  was,  or  must  have  been.  Without  this  truth,  this 
awful  first  moving  principle,  all  direction  of  the  feelings  is 
useless.  That  which  we  cannot  excite,  it  is  of  no  use  to 
know  how  to  govern. 

I  have  before  alluded.  Sect.  I.  Chap.  XIY.,  to  the  pain- 
fulness  of  Raffaelle's  treatment  of  the  massacre  of  the  inno- 
cents. Fuseli  affirms  of  it  that,  in  dramatic  gradation  he 
§21.  TheMassa-  discloscd  all  the  mother  through  every  image  of 
ere  of  innocents,  p^^^  terror."    If  this  be  SO,  I  think  the 

philosophical  spirit  has  prevailed  over  the  imaginative.  The 
imagination  never  errs,  it  sees  all  that  is,  and  all  the  relations 
and  bearings  of  it,  but  it  would  not  have  confused  the  mortal 
frenzy  of  maternal  terror  with  various  development  of  mater- 
nal character.  Fear,  rage,  and  agony,  at  their  utmost  pitch, 
sweep  away  all  character  :  humanity  itself  would  be  lost  in 
maternity,  the  woman  would  become  the  mere  personifica- 
tion of  animal  fury  or  fear.  For  this  reason  all  the  ordinary 
representations  of  this  subject  are,  I  think,  false  and  cold  : 
the  artist  has  not  heard  the  shrieks,  nor  mingled  with  the 
fugitives,  he  has  sat  down  in  his  study  to  twist  features 
methodically,  and  philosophize  over  insanity.  Not  so  Tin- 
toret.  Knowing  or  feeling,  that  the  expression  of  the  hu- 
man face  was  in  such  circumstances  not  to  be  rendered,  and 
that  the  effort  could  only  end  in  an  ugly  falsehood,  he  de- 
nies himself  all  aid  from  the  features,  he  feels  that  if  he  is  to 
place  himself  or  us  in  the  midst  of  that  maddened  multitude, 
there  can  be  no  time  allowed  for  watching  expression.  Still 
less  does  he  depend  on  details  of  murder  or  ghastliness  of 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


375 


death  ;  there  is  no  blood,  no  stabbing  or  cutting,  but  there 
is  an  awful  substitute  for  these  in  the  chiaroscuro.  The 
scene  is  the  outer  vestibule  of  a  palace,  the  slippery  marble 
floor  is  fearfully  barred  across  by  sanguine  shadows,  so  that 
our  eyes  seem  to  become  bloodshot  and  strained  with  strange 
horror  and  deadly  vision  ;  a  lake  of  life  before  them,  like  the 
burning  seen  of  the  doomed  Moabite  on  the  water  that  came 
by  the  way  of  Edom  ;  a  huge  flight  of  stairs,  without  para- 
pet, descends  on  the  left  ;  down  this  rush  a  crowd  of  women 
mixed  with  the  murderers  ;  the  child  in  the  arms  of  one  has 
been  seized  by  the  limbs,  she  hurls  herself  over  the  edge, 
and  falls  head  down-most,  dragging  the  child  out  of  the  grasp 
by  her  weight  ; — she  will  be  dashed  dead  in  a  second  :  two 
others  are  farther  in  flight,  they  reach  the  edge  of  a  deep 
river, — the  water  is  beat  into  a  hollow  by  the  force  of  their 
plunge  ; — close  to  us  is  the  great  struggle,  a  heap  of  the 
mothers  entangled  in  one  mortal  writhe  with  each  other  and 
the  swords,  one  of  the  murderers  dashed  down  and  crushed 
beneath  them,  the  sword  of  another  caught  by  the  blade  and 
dragged  at  by  a  woman's  naked  hand  ;  the  youngest  and 
fairest  of  the  women,  her  child  just  torn  away  from  a  death 
grasp  and  clasped  to  her  breast  with  the  grip  of  a  steel  vice, 
falls  backwards  helplessly  over  the  heap,  right  on  the  sword 
points  ;  all  knit  together  and  hurled  down  in  one  hopeless, 
frenzied,  furious  abandonment  of  body  and  soul  in  the  effort 
to  save.  Their  shrieks  ring  in  our  ears  till  the  marble  seems 
rending  around  us,  but  far  back,  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs, 
there  is  something  in  the  shadow  like  a  heap  of  clothes.  It 
is  a  woman,  sitting  quiet, — quite  quiet — still  as  any  stone,  she 
looks  down  steadfastly  on  her  dead  child,  laid  along  on  the 
floor  before  her,  and  her  hand  is  pressed  softly  upon  her  brow. 
This,  to  my  mind,  is  the  only  imaginative  ;  that  is,  the 
Various  ^^^J  true,  real,  heartfelt  representation  of  the 
works  in  the  scu-  beino'  and  actuality  of  the  subiect  in  existence.* 

ola  di  San  Rocco.  °  . 

I  should  exhaust  the  patience  of  the  reader  if  I 

*  Note  the  shallow  and  uncomprehending  notice  of  this  picture  by 
Fuseli.  His  description  of  the  treatment  of  it  by  other  painters  is 
however,  true,  terse,  and  valuable. 


376 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETEATIVE. 


were  to  dwell  at  length  on  the  various  stupendous  develop- 
ments of  the  imagination  of  Tintoret  in  the  Scuola  di  San 
Rocco  alone.  I  would  fain  join  a  while  in  that  solemn  pause 
of  the  journey  into  Egypt,  where  the  silver  boughs  of  the  shad- 
owy trees  lace  with  their  tremulous  lines  the  alternate  folds 
of  fair  clouds,  flushed  by  faint  crimson  light,  and  lie  across 
the  streams  of  blue  between  those  rosy  islands,  like  the  white 
wakes  of  wandering  ships  ;  or  watch  beside  the  sleep  of  the 
disciples  among  those  massy  leaves  that  lie  so  heavily  on  the 
dead  of  the  night  beneath  the  descent  of  the  angel  of  the 
agony,  and  toss  fearfully  above  the  motion  of  the  torches  as 
the  troop  of  the  betrayer  emerges  out  of  the  hollows  of  the 
olives  ;  or  wait  through  the  hour  of  accusing  beside  the 
judgment  seat  of  Pilate,  where  all  is  unseen,  unfelt,  except 
the  one  figure  that  stands  with  its  head  bowed  down,  pale 
like  a  pillar  of  moonlight,  half  bathed  in  the  glory  of  the 
§  23.  The  Last  Godhcad,  half  wrapt  in  the  whiteness  of  the 
trelteTby  f^l  shroud.  Of  thcse  and  all  the  other  thoughts  of 
ous painters.  indescribable  power  that  are  now  fading  from 
the  walls  of  those  neglected  chambers,  I  may  perhaps  en- 
deavor at  some  future  time  to  preserve  some  image  and 
shadow  more  faithfully  than  by  words  ;  but  I  shall  at  pres- 
ent terminate  our  series  of  illustrations  by  reference  to  a  work 
of  less  touching,  but  more  tremendous  appeal,  the  Last  Judg- 
ment in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  dell'  Orto.  In  this  sub- 
ject, almost  all  realizing  or  local  statement  had  been  carefully 
avoided  by  the  most  powerful  painters,  they  judging  it  bet- 
ter to  represent  its  chief  circumstances  as  generic  thoughts, 
and  present  them  to  the  mind  in  a  typical  or  abstract  form. 
In  the  judgment  of  Angelico  the  treatment  is  purely  typical, 
a  long  Campo  Santo,  composed  of  two  lines  of  graves,  stretches 
away  into  the  distance  ;  on  the  left  side  of  it  rise  the  con- 
demned ;  on  the  right  the  just.  With  Giotto  and  Orcagna, 
the  conception,  though  less  rigid,  is  equally  typical,  no  effort 
being  made  at  the  suggestion  of  space,  and  only  so  much 
ground  represented  as  is  absolutely  necessary  to  support  the 
near  figures  and  allow  space  for  a  few  graves.  Michael  An- 
gelo  in  no  respect  differs  in  his  treatment,  except  that  his 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  877 


figures  are  less  symmetrically  grouped,  and  a  greater  con- 
ception of  space  is  given  by  their  various  perspective.  No 
interest  is  attached  to  his  background  in  itself.  Fra  Bartol- 
omeo,  never  able  to  grapple  with  any  species  of  sublimity 
except  that  of  simple  religious  feeling,  fails  most  signally  in 
this  mighty  theme.*  His  group  of  the  dead,  including  not 
more  than  ten  or  twelve  figures,  occupies  the  foreground  only, 
behind  them  a  vacant  plain  extends  to  the  foot  of  a  cindery 
volcano,  about  whose  mouth  several  little  black  devils  like 
spiders  are  skipping  and  crawling.  The  judgment  of  quick 
and  dead  is  thus  expressed  as  taking  place  in  about  a  rood 
square,  and  on  a  dozen  of  people  at  a  time  ;  the  whole  of  the 
space  and  horizon  of  the  sky  and  land  being  left  vacant,  and 
the  presence  of  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  made  more  finite 
than  the  sweep  of  a  whirlwind  or  a  thunder-storm. 

By  Tintoret  only  has  this  unmanageable  event  been  grap- 
pled with  in  its  verity  ;  not  typically  nor  symbolically,  but 
as  they  may  see  it  who  shall  not  sleep,  but  be  changed.  Only 
§  24.  By  Tin-  One  traditional  circumstance  he  has  received  with 
toret.  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo,  the  boat  of  the  con- 

demned ;  but  the  impetuosity  of  his  mind  bursts  out  even  in 
the  adoption  of  this  image,  he  has  not  stopped  at  the  scowl- 
ing ferryman  of  the  one  nor  at  the  sweeping  blow  and  demon 
dragging  of  the  other,  Vjut,  seized  Hylas-like  by  the  limbs, 
and  tearing  up  the  earth  in  his  agon}^,  the  victim  is  dashed 
into  his  destruction  ;  nor  is  it  the  sluggish  Lethe,  nor  the 
fiery  lake  that  bears  the  cursed  vessel,  but  the  oceans  of  the 
earth  and  the  waters  of  the  firmament  gathered  into  one 
white,  ghastly  cataract,  the  river  of  the  wrath  of  God,  roar- 
ing down  into  the  gulf  where  the  world  has  melted  with  its 
fervent  heat,  choked  with  the  ruin  of  nations,  and  the  limbs 
of  its  corpses  tossed  out  of  its  whirling,  like  water-wheels. 
Bat  like,  out  of  the  holes  and  caverns  and  shadows  of  the 
earth,  the  bones  gather,  and  the  clay-heaps  heave,  rattling 
and  adhering  into  half-kneaded  anatomies,  that  crawl,  and 
startle,  and  struggle  up  among  the  putrid  weeds,  with  the 

*  Fresco  in  an  out-house  of  the  Ospedale  St\  Maria  Nuova  at  Flor- 
ence. 


378  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


clay  clinging  to  their  clotted  hair,  and  their  heavy  eyes  sealed 
by  the  earth  darkness  yet,  like  his  of  old  who  went  his  way 
unseeing  to  Siloam  Pool  ;  shaking  off  one  by  one  the  dreams 
of  the  prison-house,  hardly  hearing  the  clangor  of  the  trum- 
pets of  the  armies  of  God,  blinded  yet  more,  as  they  awake, 
by  the  white  light  of  the  new  Heaven^  until  the  great  vortex 
of  the  four  winds  bears  up  their  bodies  to  the  judgment  seat : 
the  firmament  is  all  full  of  them,  a  very  dust  of  human  souls, 
that  drifts,  and  floats,  and  falls  in  the  interminable,  inevita- 
ble light  ;  the  bright  clouds  are  darkened  with  them  as  with 
thick  snow,  currents  of  atom  life  in  the  arteries  of  heaven, 
now  soaring  up  slowly,  farther,  and  higher,  and  higher  still, 
till  the  eye  and  the  thought  can  follow  no  farther;  borne  up, 
wingless,  by  their  inward  faith  and  by  the  angel  powers  in- 
visible, now  hurled  in  countless  drifts  of  horror  before  the 
breath  of  their  condemnation. 

Now,  I  wish  the  reader  particularly  to  observe  throughout 
all  these  works  of  Tintoret,  the  distinction  of  the  imagina- 
tive verity  from  falsehood  on  the  one  hand,  and  from  real- 
§  25.  The  imag-  ism  on  the  Other.  The  power  of  every  picture 
how'distinguishJd  (depends  on  the  penetration  of  the  imagination 
from  realism.  {^^q  the  TRUE  nature  of  the  thing  represented, 
and  on  the  utter  scorn  of  the  imagination  for  all  shackles 
and  fetters  of  mere  external  fact  that  stand  in  the  way  of  its 
suggestiveness.  In  the  Baptism  it  cuts  away  the  trunks  of 
trees  as  if  they  were  so  much  cloud  or  vapor,  that  it  may  ex- 
hibit to  the  thought  the  completed  sequency  of  the  scene  ;* 
in  the  Massacre,  it  covers  the  marble  floor  with  visionary 
light,  that  it  may  strike  terror  into  the  spectator  without 
condescending  to  butchery  ;  it  defies  the  bare  fact,  but  cre- 
ates in  him  the  fearful  feeling  ;  in  the  Crucifixion  it  annihi- 
lates locality,  and  brings  the  palm-leaves  to  Calvary,  so  only 
that  it  may  bear  the  mind  to  the  mount  of  Olives,  as  in  the 
entombment  it  brings  the  manger  to  Jerusalem,  that  it  may 
take  the  heart  to  Bethlehem  ;  and  all  this  it  does  in  the  dar- 

*  The  same  thing  is  done  yet  more  boldly  in  the  large  composition  of 
the  ceiLng  ;  the  plague  of  fiery  serpents;  a  part  of  the  host,  and  an- 
other sky  horizon  are  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  ground. 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  379 


ing  consciousness  of  its  higher  and  spiritual  verity,  and  in 
the  entire  knowledge  of  the  fact  and  substance  of  all  that  it 
touches.  The  imaginary  boat  of  the  demon  angel  expands 
the  rush  of  the  visible  river  into  the  descent  of  irresistible 
condemnation  ;  but  to  make  that  rush  and  roar  felt  by  the 
eye  and  heard  by  the  ear,  the  rending  of  the  pine  branches 
above  the  cataract  is  taken  directly  from  nature  ;  it  is  an 
abstract  of  Alpine  storm.  Hence  v^hile  we  are  always 
placed  face  to  face  with  whatever  is  to  be  told,  there  is  in 
and  beyond  its  reality  a  voice  supernatural  ;  and  that  which 
is  doubtful  in  the  vision  has  strength,  sinew,  and  assured- 
ness, built  up  in  it  by  fact. 

Let  us,  however,  still  advance  one  step  farther,  and  ob- 
§26.  Theimagi-  scrve  the  imaginative  power  deprived  of  all  aid 
rfested  in^^BcSipt-  f^om  chiaroscuro,  color,  or  any  other  means  of 
concealing  the  frame-work  of  its  thoughts. 

It  was  said  by  Michael  Angelo  that  "  non  ha  I'ottimo  scul- 
tore  alcun  concetto,  Ch'un  marmo  solo  in  se  non  circoscriva," 
a  sentence  which,  though  in  the  immediate  sense  intended  by 
the  writer  it  may  remind  us  a  little  of  the  indignation  of  Boi- 
leau's  Pluto,  "  II  s'ensuit  de  la  que  tout  ce  qui  se  peut  dire 
de  beau,  est  dans  les  dictionnaires, — il  n'y  a  que  les  paroles 
qui  sont  transpos^es,"  yet  is  valuable,  because  it  shows  us 
that  Michael  Angelo  held  the  imagination  to  be  entirely  ex- 
pressible in  rock,  and  therefore  altogether  independent,  in 
its  own  nature,  of  those  aids  of  color  and  shade  by  which  it 
is  recommended  in  Tintoret,  though  the  sphere  of  its  opera- 
tion is  of  course  by  these  incalculably  extended.  But  the 
presence  of  the  imagination  may  be  rendered  in  marble  as 
deep,  thrilling,  and  awful  as  in  painting,  so  that  the  sculptor 
seek  for  the  soul  and  govern  the  body  thereby. 

Of  unimaginative  work,  Bandinelli  and  Canova  supply  us 
with  characteristic  instances  of  every  kind,  the  Hercules  and 
§27  Bandinelli  Cacus  of  the  former,  and  its  criticism  by  Cel- 
Canoya,  Mino  da  \m\  will  occur  at  oncc  to  everv  one  :  the  dis- 

iiesole.  '  ^  . 

gusting  statue  now  placed  so  as  to  conceal  Gi- 
otto's important  tempera  picture  in  Santa  Croce  is  a  better  in- 
stance, but  a  still  more  impressive  lesson  might  be  received 


380  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


by  comparing  the  inanity  of  Canova's  garland  grace,  and  ball- 
room sentiment  with  the  intense  truth,  tenderness,  and  power 
of  men  like  Mino  da  Fiesole,  whose  chisel  leaves  many  a  hard 
edge,  and  despises  down  and  dimple,  but  it  seems  to  cut  light 
and  carve  breath,  the  marble  burns  beneath  it,  and  becomes 
transparent  with  very  spirit.  Yet  Mino  stopped  at  the  hu- 
man nature  ;  he  saw  the  soul,  but  not  the  ghostly  presences 
about  it  ;  it  was  reserved  for  Michael  Angelo  to  pierce 
deeper  yet,  and  to  see  the  indwelling  angels.  No  man's  soul 
is  alone  :  Laocoon  or  Tobit,  the  serpent  has  it  by  the  heart 
or  the  angel  by  the  hand,  the  light  or  the  fear  of  the  spirit- 
ual things  that  move  beside  it  may  be  seen  on  the  body  ;  and 
that  bodily  form  with  Buonaroti,  white,  solid,  distinct  ma- 
,  terial,  though  it  be,  is  invariably  felt  as  the  instrument  or 
the  habitation  of  some  infinite,  invisible  power.  The  earth 
§28  Michael  An-  Sistine  Adam  that  begins  to  burn  ;  the 

geio-  woman  embodied  burst  of  adoration  from  his 

sleep  ;  the  twelve  great  torrents  of  the  Spirit  of  God  that 
pause  above  us  there,  urned  in  their  vessels  of  clay  ;  the 
waiting  in  the  shadow  of  futurity  of  those  through  whom  the 
promise  and  presence  of  God  went  down  from  the  Eve  to  the 
Mary,  each  still  and  fixed,  fixed  in  his  expectation,  silent, 
foreseeing,  faithful,  seated  each  on  his  stony  throne,  the  build- 
ing stones  of  the  word  of  God,  building  on  and  on,  tier  by 
tier,  to  the  Refused  one,  the  head  of  the  corner  ;  not  only 
these,  not  only  the  troops  of  terror  torn  up  from  the  earth 
by  the  four  quartered  winds  of  the  Judgment,  but  every 
fragment  and  atom  of  stone  that  he  ever  touched  became 
instantly  inhabited  by  what  makes  the  hair  stand  up  and  the 
words  be  few  ;  the  St.  Matthew,  not  yet  disengaged  from 
his  sepulchre,  bound  hand  and  foot  by  his  grave  clothes,  it 
is  left  for  us  to  loose  him  ;  the  strange  spectral  wreath  of 
the  Florence  Pieta,  casting  its  pyramidal,  distorted  shadow, 
full  of  pain  and  death,  among  the  faint  purple  lights  that 
cross  and  perish  under  the  obscure  dome  of  St*.  Maria  del 
Fiore,  the  white  lassitude  of  joyous  limbs,  panther-like,  yet 
passive,  fainting  with  their  own  delight,  that  gleam  among 
the  pagan  formalisms  of  the  Uifizii,  far  away,  showing  them- 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE,  381 


selves  in  their  lustrous  lightness  as  the  waves  of  an  Alpine 
torrent  do  by  their  dancing  among  the  dead  stones,  though, 
the  stones  be  as  white  as  they  :  *  and  finally,  and  perhaps 
more  than  all,  those  four  ineffable  types,  not  of  darkness  nor 
of  day- — not  of  morning  nor  evening,  but  of  the  departure 
and  the  resurrection,  the  twilight  and  the  dawn  of  the  souls 
of  men — together  with  the  spectre  sitting  in  the  shadow  of 
the  niche  above  them  ;  f  all  these,  and  all  else  that  I  could 

*  The  Bacchus.  There  is  a  small  statue  opposite  it  also — unfinished  ; 
but  ''a  spirit  still." 

f  I  would  have  insisted  more  on  the  ghostly  vitality  of  this  dreadful 
statue  ;  but  the  passage  referring  to  it  in  Rogers's  Italy  supersedes  all 
further  description.    I  suppose  most  lovers  of  art  know  it  by  heart. 

"  Nor  then  forget  that  chamber  of  the  dead. 
Where  the  gigantic  shapes  of  Night  and  Day, 
Turned  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly  ; 
Yet  still  are  breathing,  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  twofold  influence, — only  to  be  felt — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingling  each  with  each ; 
Both,  and  yet  neither.    There,  from  age  to  age, 
Two  ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.    Mark  him  well. 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  from  beneath  his  helm-like  bonnet  scowls  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  ? 
*Tis  lost  in  shade  ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical  ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard 
At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 
Od  that  thrice -hallowed  day,  when  all  are  there; 
When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs, 
Visit  the  Dead.    Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power !  " 

It  is  strange  that  this  should  be  the  only  written  instance  (as  far  as  I 
recollect)  of  just  and  entire  appreciation  of  Michael  Angelo's  spiritual 
power.  It  is  perhaps  owing  to  the  very  intensity  of  his  imagination 
that  he  has  been  so  little  understood — for,  as  I  before  said,  imagination 
can  never  be  met  by  vanity,  nor  without  earnestness.  His  Florentine 
followers  saw  in  him  an  anatomist  and  posture-master — and  art  was 
finally  destroyed  by  the  influence  over  admiring  idiocy  of  the  greatest 
mind  that  art  ever  inspired. 


382 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE, 


name  of  his  forming,  have  borne,  and  in  themselves  retain 
and  exercise  the  same  inexplicable  power — inexplicable  be- 
cause proceeding  from  an  imaginative  perception  almost 
superhuman,  which  goes  whither  we  cannot  follow,  and  is 
where  we  cannot  come  ;  throwing  naked  the  final,  deepest 
root  of  the  being  of  man,  whereby  he  grows  out  of  the  in- 
visible, and  holds  on  his  God  home.* 

*  I  have  not  chosen  to  interrupt  the  argument  respecting  the  essence 
of  the  imaginative  faculty  by  any  remarks  on  the  execution  of  the  im- 
aginative hand  ;  but  we  can  hardly  leave  Tintoret  and  Michael  Angelo 
without  some  notice  of  the  pre-eminent  power  of  execution  exhibited 
by  both  of  them,  in  consequence  of  their  vigor  and  clearness  of  concep- 
tion ;  nor  without  again  warning  the  lower  artist  from  confounding 
this  velocity  of  decision  and  impatience  with  the  velocity  of  affectation 
or  indolence.  Every  result  of  real  imagination  we  have  seen  to  be  a 
truth  of  some  sort ;  and  it  is  the  characteristic  of  truth  to  be  in  some 
way  tangible,  seizable,  distinguishable,  and  clear,  as  it  is  of  falsehood 
to  be  obscure,  confused,  and  confusing.  Not  but  that  many,  if  not 
most  truths  have  a  dark  side,  a  side  by  which  they  are  connected  with 
mysteries  too  high  for  us, — nay,  I  think  it  is  commonly  but  a  poor  and 
miserable  truth  which  the  human  mind  can  walk  all  round,  but  at  all 
events  they  have  one  side  by  which  we  can  lay  hold  of  them,  and  feel 
that  they  are  downright  adamant,  and  that  their  form,  though  lost  in 
cloud  here  and  there,  is  unalterable  and  real,  and  not  less  real  and  rocky 
because  infinite,  and  joined  on,  St.  MichaeFs  mount-like  to  a  far  main- 
land. So  then,  whatever  the  real  imagination  lays  hold  of,  as  it  is  a 
truth,  does  not  alter  into  anything  else  as  the  imaginative  part  works 
at  it  and  feels  over  it  and  finds  out  more  of  it,  but  comes  out  more  and 
more  continually,  all  that  is  found  out  pointing  to  and  indicating  still 
more  behind,  and  giving  additional  stability  and  reality  to  that  which 
is  discovered  already.  But  if  it  be  fancy  or  any  other  form  of  pseudo- 
imagination  which  is  at  work,  then  that  which  it  gets  hold  of  may  not 
be  a  truth,  but  only  an  idea,  which  will  keep  giving  way  as  soon  as  we 
try  to  take  hold  of  it  and  turning  into  something  else,  so  that  as  we  go 
on  copying  it,  every  part  will  be  inconsistent  with  all  that  has  gone  be- 
fore, and  at  intervals  it  will  vanish  altogether,  and  leave  blanks  which 
must  be  filled  up  by  any  means  at  hand.  And  in  these  circumstances, 
the  painter,  unable  to  seize  his  thought,  because  it  has  not  substance 
nor  bone  enougli  to  bear  gmsping,  is  liable  to  catch  at  every  line  that 
he  lays  down,  for  help  and  suggestion,  and  to  be  led  away  by  it  to  some- 
thing else,  which  the  first  effort  to  realize  dissipates  in  like  manner, 
placing  another  phantom  in  its  stead,  until  out  of  the  Iragmencs  of 
thciie  successive  phantoms  he  has  glued  together  a  vague,  mindless,  in^ 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  383 


Now,  in  all  these  instances,  let  it  be  observed,  for  it  is  to 
that  end  alone  that  I  have  been  arguing  all  along,  that  the 
virtue  of  the  imagination  is  its  reaching,  by  intuition  and  in- 
§29.Becapituia.  tensity  of  gaze,  (not  by  reasoning,  but  by  its 
tion.   The  per-  authoritative  opening  and  revealing:  power.)  a 

feet  function  of  .  i  i      i         •  ^  I 

the  imagination  more  esseutial  truth  than  IS  seen  at  the  surface 

is  the  intuitive      «    i  .  x  i  • 

perception  of  ui-  ot  things,  i  repeat  that  it  matters  not  whether 
timatetrut  .  ^^^^  reader  is  willing  to  call  this  faculty  imagina- 
tion or  no,  I  do  not  care  about  the  name  ;  but  I  would  be 
understood  when  I  speak  of  imagination  hereafter,  to  mean 

voluntary  whole,  a  mixture  of  all  that  was  trite  or  common  in  each  of 
the  successive  conceptions,  for  that  is  necessarily  what  is  first  caught  a 
heap  of  things  with  the  bloom  off  and  the  chill  on,  laborious,  unnatural, 
inane,  with  its  emptiness  disguised  by  affectation,  and  its  tastelessness 
salted  by  extravagance. 

Necessarily,  from  these  modes  of  conception,  three  vices  of  execution 
must  result ;  and  these  are  necessarily  found  in  all  those  parts  of  the 
work  where  any  trust  has  been  put  in  conception,  and  only  to  be 
avoided  in  portions  of  actual  portraiture  (for  a  thoroughly  unimagina- 
tive painter  can  make  no  use  of  a  study — all  his  studies  are  guesses  and 
experiments,  all  are  equally  wrong,  and  so  far  felt  to  be  wrong  by  him- 
self, that  he  will  not  work  by  any  of  them,  but  will  always  endeavor  to 
improve  upon  them  in  the  picture,  and  so  lose  the  use  of  them).  These 
three  vices  of  execution  are  then — first,  feebleness  of  handling,  owing 
to  uncertainty  of  intention ;  secondly,  Intentional  carelessness  of  han- 
dling, in  the  hope  of  getting  by  accident  something  more  than  was  meant ; 
and  lastly,  violence  and  haste  of  handling,  in  the  effort  to  secure  as 
much  as  possible  of  the  obscure  image  of  which  the  mind  feels  itself 
losing  hold.  (I  am  throughout,  it  will  be  observed,  attributing  right 
feeling  to  the  unimaginative  painter  ;  if  he  lack  this,  his  execution  may 
be  cool  and  determined,  as  he  will  set  down  falsehood  without  blush- 
ing, and  ugliness  without  suffering.)  Added  to  these  various  evidences 
of  weakness,  will  be  the  various  vices  assumed  for  the  sake  of  conceal- 
ment ;  morbid  refinements  disguising  feebleness — or  insolence  and 
coarseness  to  cover  desperation.  When  the  imagination  is  powerful, 
the  resulting  execution  is  of  course  the  contrary  of  all  this :  its  first 
steps  will  commonly  be  impetuous,  in  clearing  its  ground  and  getting  at 
its  first  conception — as  we  know  of  Michael  Angelo  in  his  smiting  his 
blocks  into  shape,  (see  the  passage  quoted  by  Sir  Charles  Clarke  in  the 
Essay  on  Expression,  from  Blaise  de  Vigenere,)  and  as  it  is  visible  in  the 
handling  of  Tintoret  always  :  as  the  work  approaches  completion,  the 
stroke,  while  it  remains  certain  and  firm,  because  its  end  is  always 
known,  may  frequently  become  slow  and  careful,  both  on  account  of 


384  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETBATIVE. 


this,  the  true  foundation  of  all  art  which  exercises  eternal 
authority  over  men's  minds  ;  (all  other  imagination  than  this 
is  either  secondary  and  contemplative,  or  utterly  spurious  ;) 
the  base  of  whose  authority  and  being  is  its  perpetual  thirst 

the  difficulty  of  following  the  pure  lines  of  conception,  and  because 
there  is  no  fear  felt  of  the  conception's  vanishing  before  it  can  be  real- 
ized ;  but  generally  there  is  a  certain  degree  of  impetuosity  visible  in  the 
works  of  all  the  men  of  high  imagination,  when  they  are  not  working 
from  a  study,  showing  itself  in  Michael  Angelo  by  the  number  of  blocks 
he  left  unfinished,  and  by  some  slight  evidences  in  those  he  completed 
of  his  having  worked  painfully  towards  the  close  ;  so  that,  except  the 
Duke  Lorenzo,  the  Bacchus  of  the  Florentine  gallery,  and  the  Pieta  of 
Genoa,  I  know  not  any  of  his  finished  works  in  which  his  mind  is  as 
mightily  expressed  as  in  his  marble  sketches ;  only,  it  is  always  to  be 
observed  that  impetuosity  or  rudeness  of  hand  is  not  necessarily — and, 
if  imaginative,  is  never — carelessness.  In  the  two  landscapes  at  the 
end  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Kocco,  Tintoret  has  drawn  several  large  tree 
trunks  with  two  strokes  of  his  brush — one  for  the  dark,  and  another  for 
the  light  side ;  and  the  large  rock  at  the  foot  of  the  picture  of  the 
Temptation  is  painted  with  a  few  detached  touches  of  gray  over  a  flat 
brown  ground ;  but  the  touches  of  the  tree-trunks  have  been  followed 
by  the  mind  as  they  went  down  with  the  most  painful  intensity  through 
their  every  undulation  ;  and  the  few  gray  strokes  on  the  stone  are  so 
considered  that  a  better  stone  cone  could  not  be  painted  if  we  took  a 
month  to  it :  and  I  suppose,  generally,  it  would  be  utterly  impossible 
to  give  an  example  of  execution  in  which  less  was  left  to  accident,  or 
in  which  more  care  was  concentrated  in  every  stroke,  than  the  seem- 
ingly regardless  and  impetuous  handling  of  this  painter. 

On  the  habit  of  both  Tintoret  and  Michael  Augelo  to  work  straight 
forward  from  the  block  and  on  the  canvas,  without  study  or  model,  it 
is  needless  to  insist  ;  for  though  this  is  one  of  the  most  amazing  proofs 
of  their  imaginative  power,  it  is  a  dangerous  precedent.  No  mode  of 
execution  ought  ever  to  be  taught  to  a  young  artist  as  better  than  an- 
other;  he  ought  to  understand  the  truth  of  what  he  has  to  do,  felicitous 
execution  will  follow  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  if  he  feels  himself  ca- 
pable of  getting  at  the  right  at  once,  he  will  naturally  do  so  without  ref- 
erence to  precedent.  He  ought  to  hold  always  that  his  duty  is  to  attain 
the  highest  result  he  can, — but  that  no  one  has  any  business  with  the 
means  or  time  he  has  taken.  If  it  can  be  done  quickly,  let  it  be  so 
done  ;  if  not,  let  it  be  done  at  any  rate.  For  knowing  his  way  he  is 
answerable,  and  therefore  must  not  walk  doubtingly  ;  but  no  one  can 
blame  him  for  walking  cautiously^  if  the  way  be  a  narrow  one,  with  a 
slip  on  each  side.  He  may  pause,  but  he  must  not  hesitate, — and 
tremble,  but  must  not  vacillate. 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  385 


of  truth  and  purpose  to  be  true.  It  has  no  food,  no  delight, 
no  care,  no  perception,  except  of  truth  ;  it  is  forever  looking 
under  masks,  and  burning  up  mists  ;  no  fairness  of  form,  no 
majesty  of  seeming  will  satisfy  it  ;  the  first  condition  of  its 
existence  is  incapability  of  being  deceived  ;  and  though  it 
sometimes  dwells  upon  and  substantiates  the  fictions  of  fancy, 
yet  its  own  operation  is  to  trace  to  their  farthest  limit  the 
true  laws  and  likelihoods  even  of  the  fictitious  creation.  This 
has  been  well  explained  by  Fuseli,  in  his  allusion  to  the  Cen- 
taur of  Zeuxis  ;  and  there  is  not  perhaps  a  greater  exertion 
of  imaginative  power  than  may  be  manifested  in  following 
out  to  their  farthest  limits  the  necessary  consequences  of  such 
arbitrary  combination  ;  but  let  not  the  jests  of  the  fancy  be 
confounded  with  that  after  serious  work  of  the  imagination 
which  gives  them  all  the  nervous  verity  and  substance  of 
which  they  are  capable.  Let  not  the  monsters  of  Chinese 
earthenware  be  confounded  with  the  Faun,  Satyr,  or  Centaur. 

How  different  this  definition  of  the  imagination  may  be 
from  the  idea  of  it  commonly  entertained  among  us,  I  can 
hardly  say,  because  I  have  a  very  indistinct  idea  of  what 
is  usually  meant  by  the  term.    I  hear  modern 

§30.     Imagina-  ^      xi  •      i         i     •         •  • 

tion,  how  vulgar-  works  Constantly  praised  as  being  imaginative, 

ly  understood.       •i-it  .  •  ^  p  I'l 

m  which  i  can  trace  no  virture  oi  any  kind  ; 
but  simple,  slavish,  unpalliated  falsehood  and  exaggeration  ; 
I  see  not  what  merit  there  can  be  in  pure,  ugly,  resolute  fic- 
tion ;  it  is  surely  easy  enough  to  be  wrong  ;  there  are  many 
ways  of  being  unlike  nature.  I  understand  not  what  virtue 
that  is  which  entitles  one  of  these  ways  to  be  called  imagi- 
native, rather  than  another  ;  and  I  am  still  farther  embar- 
rassed by  hearing  the  portions  of  those  works  called  espe- 
cially imaginative  in  which  there  is  the  most  effort  at  minute 
and  mechanical  statement  of  contemptible  details,  and  in 
which  the  artist  would  have  been  as  actual  and  absolute  in 
imitation  as  an  echo,  if  he  had  known  how.  Against  con- 
victions which  I  do  not  understand,  I  cannot  argue  ;  but  I 
may  warn  the  artist  that  imagination  of  this  strange  kind,  is 
not  capable  of  bearing  the  time  test  ;  nothing  of  its  doing 
ever  has  continued  its  influence  over  men  ;  and  if  he  desires 
Vol.  II.— 25 


386  OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


to  take  place  among  the  great  men  of  older  time,  there  is  but 
one  way  for  it ;  and  one  kind  of  imagination  that  will  stand 
the  immortal  light  :  I  know  not  how  far  it  is  by  effort  cul- 
tivable ;  but  we  have  evidence  enough  before  us  to  show  in 
what  direction  that  effort  must  be  made. 

We  have  seen  (§  10)  that  the  imagination  is  in  no  small 
degree  dependent  on  acuteness  of  moral  emotion  ;  in  fact, 
all  moral  truth  can  only  thus  be  apprehended — and  it  is  ob- 
§3i.Hovvitscui-  servable,  generally,  that  all  true  and  deep  emo- 
pJnto't  on  the  ^^^^  imaginative,  both  in  conception  and  ex- 
morai  feelings,  pression  ;  and  that  the  mental  sight  becomes 
sharper  with  every  full  beat  of  the  heart  ;  and,  therefore,  all 
egotism,  and  selfish  care,  or  regard,  are  in  proportion  to  their 
constancy,  destructive  of  imagination  ;  whose  play  and  power 
depend  altogether  on  our  being  able  to  forget  ourselves  and 
enter  like  possessing  spirits  into  the  bodies  of  things  about 
us. 

Again,  as  the  life  of  imagination  is  in  the  discovering  of 
truth,  it  is  clear  it  can  have  no  respect  for  sayings  or  opin- 
ions :  knowing  in  itself  when  it  has  invented  truly — restless 
§  32  On  inde-  tormented  except  when  it  has  this  knowl- 
pendenceofmind,  edge,  its  sense  of  success  or  failure  is  too  acute 
to  be  affected  by  praise  or  blame.  Sympathy  it  desires — but 
can  do  without  ;  of  opinions  it  is  regardless,  not  in  pride, 
but  because  it  has  no  vanity,  and  is  conscious  of  a  rule  of  ac- 
tion and  object  of  aim  in  which  it  cannot  be  mistaken  ;  partly, 
also,  in  pure  energy  of  desire  and  longing  to  do  and  to  invent 
more  and  more,  which  suffer  it  not  to  suck  the  sweetness  of 
praise — unless  a  little,  with  the  end  of  the  rod  in  its  hand, 
and  without  pausing  in  its  march.  It  goes  straight  forward 
up  the  hill  ;  no  voices  nor  mutterings  can  turn  it  back,  nor 
petrify  it  from  its  purpose.* 

Finally,  it  is  evident,  that  like  the  theoretic  faculty,  the 
imasrination  must  be  fed  constantly  by  external 

§33.    And  on  ha-  *  ^  -n     .  i 

bitual  reference  to  nature — after  the  illustrations  we  have  given, 
"*'^"^^*  this  may  seem  mere  truism,  for  it  is  clear  that 

*  That  which  we  know  of  the  lives  of  M.  Angelo  and  Tintoret  is  emi- 
nently illustrative  of  this  temper. 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE, 


387 


to  the  exercise  of  the  penetrative  faculty  a  subject  of  penetra- 
tion is  necessary  ;  but  I  note  it  because  many  painters  of 
powerful  mind  have  been  lost  to  the  world  by  their  suffering 
the  restless  writhing  of  their  imagination  in  its  cage  to  take 
place  of  its  healthy  and  exulting  activity  in  the  fields  of  nat- 
ure. The  most  imaginative  men  always  study  the  hardest, 
and  are  the  most  thirsty  for  new  knowledge.  Fancy  plays 
like  a  squirrel  in  its  circular  prison,  and  is  happy  ;  but  imag- 
ination is  a  pilgrim  on  the  earth — and  her  home  is  in  heaven. 
Shut  her  from  the  fields  of  the  celestial  mountains — bar  her 
from  breathing  their  lofty,  sun-warmed  air  ;  and  we  may  as 
well  turn  upon  her  the  last  bolt  of  the  tower  of  famine,  and 
give  the  keys  to  the  keeping  of  the  wildest  surge  that  washes 
Capraja  and  Gorgon  a. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 

We  have,  in  the  two  preceding  chapters,  arrived  at  defi- 
nite conclusions  respecting  the  power  and  essence  of  the 
imaginative  faculty.  In  these  two  acts  of  penetration  and 
§1.  Imagination  Combination,  its  separating  and  characteristic 
n?t^pa?t^o^^^^^  attributes  are  entirely  developed  ;  it  remains 
essence,  but  only  f  qj,      Qj^jy       obscrve  a  Certain  habit  or  mode 

a  habit  or  mode 

of  the  faculty.  of  Operation  in  which  it  frequently  delights,  and 
by  which  it  addresses  itself  to  our  perceptions  more  forcibly, 
and  asserts  its  presence  more  distinctly  than  in  those  mighty 
but  more  secret  workings  wherein  its  life  consists. 

In  our  examination  of  the  combining  imagination,  we  chose 
to  assume  the  first  or  simple  conception  to  be  as  clear  in  the 
absence  as  in  the  presence  of  the  object  of  it.  This,  I  sup- 
pose, is  in  point  of  fact  never  the  case,  nor  is  an  approxima- 
tion to  such  distinctness  of  conception  alwaj^s  a  characteristic 
of  the  imaginative  mind.  Many  persons  have  thorough  and 
felicitous  power  of  drawing  from  memory,  yet  never  origi- 
nate a  thought,  nor  excite  an  emotion. 


388         OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


The  form  in  which  conception  actually  occurs  to  ordinary- 
minds  appears  to  derive  value  and  preciousness  from  that  in- 
definiteness  v^hich  we  alluded  to  in  the  second  chapter,  (§  2,) 
§  2.  The  ambigu-  there  is  an  unfailing  charm  in  the  memory 
ity  of  conception.  ^^^^  anticipation  of  things  beautiful,  more  sunny 
and  spiritual  than  attaches  to  their  presence  ;  for  with  their 
presence  it  is  possible  to  be  sated,  and  even  wearied,  but 
with  the  imagination  of  them  never  ;  in  so  far  that  it  needs 
some  self-discipline  to  prevent  the  mind  from  falling  into  a 
morbid  condition  of  dissatisfaction  with  all  that  it  immedi- 
ately possesses,  and  continual  longing  for  things  absent ;  and 
yet  I  think  this  charm  is  not  justly  to  be  attributed  to  the 
mere  vagueness  and  uncertainty  of  the  conception,  except 
thus  far,  that  of  objects  whose  substantial  presence  was  ugly 
or  painful  the  sublimity  and  impressiveness,  if  there  were  any, 
is  retained  in  the  conception,  while  the  sensual  offensiveness 
is  withdrawn  ;  thus  circumstances  of  horror  may  be  safely 
touched  in  verbal  description,  and  for  a  time  dwelt  upon  by 
the  mind,  as  often  by  Homer  and  Spenser,  (by  the  latter  fre- 
quently with  too  much  grossness,  as  in  the  description  of  the 
combat  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight  with  Errour,)  which  could 
not  for  a  moment  be  regarded  or  tolerated  in  their  reality,  or 
on  canvas  ;  and  besides  this  mellowing  and  softening  opera- 
tion on  those  it  retains,  the  conceptive  faculty  has  the  power 
of  letting  go  many  of  them  altogether  out  of  its  groups  of 
ideas,  and  retaining  only  those  where  the  meminisse  juvabit 
will  apply  ;  and  in  this  way  the  entire  group  of  memories  be- 
comes altogether  delightful  ;  but  of  those  parts  of  anything 
§  3.  Is  not  in  itself  whicli  are  in  themselves  beautiful,  I  think  the 
^^thi'cLfm  of  indistinctness  no  benefit,  but  that  the  brighter 
fan:  things.  they  are  the  better  ;  and  that  the  peculiar  charm 

we  feel  in  conception  results  from  its  grasp  and  blending  of 
ideas  rather  than  from  their  obscurity,  for  we  do  not  usually 
recall,  as  we  have  seen,  one  part  at  a  time  only  of  a  pleasant 
scene,  one  moment  only  of  a  happy  day  ;  but  together  with 
each  single  object  we  summon  up  a  kind  of  crowded  and  in- 
volved shadowing  forth  of  all  the  other  glories  with  which  it 
was  associated,  and  into  every  moment  we  concentrate  an 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  389 


epitome  of  the  day  ;  and  it  will  happen  frequently  that  even 
when  the  visible  objects  or  actual  circuaistances  are  not  in 
numbers  remembered  ;  yet  the  feeling  and  joy  of  them  is  ob- 
tained we  know  not  how  or  whence,  and  so  with  a  kind  of 
conceptive  burning  glass  we  bend  the  sunshine  of  all  the  day, 
and  the  fulness  of  all  the  scene  upon  every  point  that  we  suc- 
cessively seize  ;  and  this  together  with  more  vivid  action  of 
fancy,  for  I  think  that  the  wilful  and  playful  seizure  of  the 
points  that  suit  her  purpose  and  help  her  springing,  whereby 
she  is  distinguished  from  simple  conception,  takes  place  more 
easily  and  actively  with  the  memory  of  things  than  in  pres- 
ence of  them.  But,  however  this  be,  and  I  confess  that  there 
is  much  that  I  cannot  satisfactorily  to  myself  unravel  with 
respect  to  the  nature  of  simple  conception  ;  it  is  evident  that 
this  agreeableness,  whatever  it  be,  is  not  by  art  attainable, 
for  all  art  is  in  some  sort  realization  ;  it  may  be  the  realiza- 
tion of  obscurity  or  indefiniteness,  but  still  it  must  differ  from 
the  mere  conception  of  obscurity  and  indefiniteness  ;  so  that 
whatever  emotions  depend  absolutely  on  imperfectness  of 
conception,  as  the  horror  of  Milton's  Death,  cannot  be  ren- 
dered by  art,  for  art  can  only  lay  hold  of  things  which  have 
shape,  and  destroys  by  its  touch  the  fearfulness  or  pleasur- 
ableness  of  those  which  shape  have  none. 

But  on  this  indistinctness  of  conception,  itself  compara- 
tively valueless  and  unaffecting,  is  based  the  operation  of  the 
imaginative  faculty  with  which  we  are  at  present  concerned, 
§  4.  But  gives  to  and  in  which  its  glory  is  consummated  ;  where- 
i?s^rega^Tant  ^y,  depriving  the  subject  of  material  and  bodily 
power  over  them,  gj^ap^^  ^^d  regarding  such  of  its  qualities  only 
as  it  chooses  for  particular  purpose,  it  forges  these  qualities 
together  in  such  groups  and  forms  as  it  desires,  and  gives  to 
their  abstract  being  consistency  and  reality,  by  striking  them 
as  it  were  with  the  die  of  an  image  belonging  to  other  matter, 
which  stroke  having  once  received,  they  pass  current  at  once 
in  the  peculiar  conjunction  and  for  the  peculiar  value  desired. 

Thus,  in  the  description  of  Satan  quoted  in  the  first  chapter, 
"  And  like  a  comet  burned,"  the  bodily  shape  of  the  angel  is 
destroyed,  the  inflaming  of  the  formless  spirit  is  alone  re- 


390  OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE, 


garded  ;  and  this,  and  his  power  of  evil  associated  in  one 
fearful  and  abstract  conception  are  stamped  to  give  them 
distinctness  and  permanence  with  the  image  of  the  comet, 
"thd,t  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge."  Yet  this  could 
not  be  done,  but  that  the  image  of  the  comet  itself  is  in  a 
measure  indistinct,  capable  of  awful  expansion,  and  full  of 
threatening  and  fear.  Again,  in  his  fall,  the  imagination 
binds  up  the  thunder,  the  resistance,  the  massy  prostration, 
separates  them  from  the  external  form,  and  binds  them  to- 
gether by  the  help  of  that  image  of  the  mountain  half-sunk; 
which  again  would  be  unfit  but  for  its  own  indistinctness, 
and  for  that  glorious  addition  "  with  all  his  pines,"  whereby 
a  vitality  and  spear-like  hostility  are  communicated  to  its  fall- 
ing form,  and  the  fall  is  marked  as  not  utter  subversion,  but 
sinking  only,  the  pines  remaining  in  their  uprightness,  and 
unity,  and  threatening  of  darkness  upon  the  descended  preci- 
pice :  and  again  in  that  yet  more  noble  passage  at  the  close 
of  the  fourth  book,  where  almost  every  operation  of  the  con- 
templative imagination  is  concentrated  ;  the  angelic  squad- 
ron first  gathered  into  one  burning  mass  by  the  single  ex- 
pression "  sharpening  in  mooned  horns,"  then  told  out  in 
their  unity  and  multitude  and  stooped  hostility,  by  the  im- 
age of  the  wind  upon  the  corn  ;  Satan  endowed  with  godlike 
strength  and  endurance  in  that  mighty  line,  "like  Teneriffe 
or  Atlas,  unremoved,'*  with  infinitude  of  size  the  next  in- 
stant, and  with  all  the  vagueness  and  terribleness  of  spiritual 
power,  by  the  "  horror  plumed,"  and  the  "  what  seemed  both 
spear  and  shield." 

The  third  function  of  fancy,  already  spoken  of  as  subordi- 
nate to  this  of  the  imagination,  is  the  highest  of  which  she 
is  capable  ;  like  the  imagination,  she  beholds  in  the  things 
o     mu  ^1,.  ,  *  submitted  to  her  treatment  thin^rs  different 

§  5.  The  third  of-  . 

lice  of  fancy  dis-  from  the  actual  :  but  the  su^fsrestions  she  fol- 

tinc^uished   from  .  ,. 

imagination   con-  lows  are  not  m  their  nature  essential  in  the 

templative.  ,  .  i        t  i     i       •  ^ 

object  contemplated  ;  and  the  images  result- 
ing, instead  of  illustrating,  may  lead  the  mind  away  from  it, 
and  change  the  current  of  contemplative  feeling  ;  for  as  in 
her  operation  parallel  to  imagination  penetrative,  we  saw  her 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  391 


dwelling  upon  external  features,  while  the  nobler  sister,  fac- 
ulty, entered  within,  so  now,  when  both,  from  what  they  see 
and  know  in  their  immediate  object,  are  conjuring  up  im- 
ages illustrative  or  elevatory  of  it,  the  fancy  necessarily  sum- 
mons those  of  mere  external  relationship,  and  therefore  of  un- 
affecting  influence;  while  the  imagination,  by  every  ghost  she 
raises,  tells  tales  about  the  prison-house,  and  therefore  never 
loses  her  power  over  the  heart,  nor  her  unity  of  emotion.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  regardant  or  contemplative  action  of 
fancy  is  in  this  different  from,  and  in  the  nobler,  than  that 
mere  seizing  and  likeness-catching  operation  we  saw  in  her 
before  ;  that  when  contemplative,  she  verily  believes  in  the 
truth  of  the  vision  she  has  summoned,  loses  sight  of  actuality, 
and  beholds  the  new  and  spiritual  image  faithfully  and  even 
seriously  ;  whereas  before,  she  summoned  no  spiritual  image, 
but  merely  caught  the  vivid  actuality,  or  the  curious  resem- 
blance of  the  real  object  ;  not  that  these  two  operations  are 
separate,  for  the  fancy  passes  gradually  from  mere  vivid  right 
of  reality,  and  witty  suggestion  of  likeness,  to  a  ghostly 
sight  of  what  is  unreal  ;  and  through  this,  in  proportion  as 
she  begins  to  feel,  she  rises  towards  and  partakes  of  imagina- 
tion itself,  for  imagination  and  fancy  are  continually  united, 
and  it  is  necessary,  when  they  are  so,  carefully  to  distinguish 
the  feelingless  part  which  is  fancy's,  from  the  sentient  part, 
which  is  imagination's.  Let  us  take  a  few  instances.  Here 
is  fancy,  first,  very  beautiful,  in  her  simple  capacity  of  like- 
ness-catching:— 

To-day  we  purpose — aye,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine. 
Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Seizing  on  the  outside  resemblances  of  bead  form,  and  on 
the  slipping  from  their  threading  bough  one  by  one,  the 
fancy  is  content  to  lose  the  heart  of  the  thing,  the  solemnity 
of  prayer  :  or  perhaps  I  do  the  glorious  poet  wrong  in  say- 
ing this,  for  the  sense  of  a  sun  worship  and  orison  in  begin- 
ning its  race,  may  have  been  in  his  mind  ;  and  so  far  as  it 


392         OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.. 


was  so,  the  passage  is  imaginative  and  not  fanciful.  But 
that  which  most  readers  would  accept  from  it,  is  the  mere 
flash  of  the  external  image,  in  whose  truth  the  fancy  herself 
does  not  yet  believe  and  therefore  is  not  yet  contemplative. 
Here,  however,  is  fancy  believing  in  the  images  she  creates  : — 

*'It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent-vine, 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odor  faded  blooms, 
Which  star  the  winds  with  points  of  colored  light 
As  they  rain  through  them ;  and  bright  golden  globes 
Of  fruit  suspended  in  their  own  green  heaven,^'' 

It  is  not,  observe,  a  mere  likeness  that  is  caught  here  ;  but 
the  flowers  and  fruit  are  entirely  deprived  by  the  fancy  of 
their  material  existence,  and  contemplated  by  her  seriously 
and  faithfully  as  stars  and  worlds  ;  yet  it  is  only  external 
likeness  that  she  catches  ;  she  forces  the  resemblance,  and 
lowers  the  dignity  of  the  adopted  image. 

Next  take  two  delicious  stanzas  of  fancy  regardant,  (be- 
lieving in  her  creations,)  followed  by  one  of  heavenly  im- 
agination, from  Wordsworth's  address  to  the  daisy  ; — 

A  Nun  demure — of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden — of  Love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations. 

A  Queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest, 

A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest, 

Are  all  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, — 

Thy  appellations. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar, 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, — 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 
In  heaven  above  thee. 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self -poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest ; — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 
Who  shall  reprove  thee. 

Sweet  flower — for  by  that  name  at  last, 

When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 

I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast. 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  393 


Sweet  silent  creature, 
That  breath'st  with  me,  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
Of  thy  meek  nature. " 

Observe  how  spiritual,  yet  how  wandering  and  playful  the 
fancy  is  in  the  first  two  stanzas,  and  how  far  she  flies  from 
the  matter  in  hand,  never  stopping  to  brood  on  the  character 
§  6.  Various  in-       ^^^J  images  she  summons,  and  yet 

stances.  £qj.  ^  moment  truly  seeing  and  believing  in  them 

all  ;  while  in  the  last  stanza  the  imagination  returns  with  its 
deep  feeling  to  the  heart  of  the  flower,  and  "  cleaves  fasV'^  to 
that.  Compare  the  operation  of  the  imagination  in  Coleridge, 
on  one  of  the  most  trifling  objects  that  could  possibly  have 
been  submitted  to  its  action. 

The  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not : 
Only  that  film  which  fluttered  on  the  grate 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing*. 
Methinks  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me,  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets ;  everywhere. 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  thought." 

Lastly,  observe  the  sweet  operation  of  fancy  regardant,  in 
the  following  well-known  passage  from  Scott,  where  both  her 
beholding  and  transforming  powers  are  seen  in  their  sim- 
plicity. 

The  rocky  summits — split  and  rent. 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement. — 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair, 
For  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed, 
Far  o'er  th'  unfathomable  glade, 


394         OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 

All  twinkling  with  the  dew-drop  sheen, 
The  brier-rose  fell,  in  streamers  green. — 
And  creeping  shrubs  of  thousand  dyes 
Waved  in  the  west  wind's  summer  sighs." 

Let  the  reader  refer  to  this  passage,  with  its  pretty  tremu- 
lous conclusion  above  the  pine  tree,  "  where  glistening  stream- 
ers waved  and  danced,"  and  then  compare  with  it  the  follow- 
ing, where  the  imagination  operates  on  a  scene  nearly 
similar. 

Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and  stemm'd 
The  struggling  brook ;  tall  spires  of  windle  strae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope, 
And  nought  but  knarled  roots  of  ancient  pines, 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clench' d  with  grasping  roots 

Th'  unwilling  soil  

 A  gradual  change  was  here. 

Yet  ghastly.    For,  as  fast  years  flow  away^ 
The  smooth  brow  gathers^  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white  ;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone^  gleam  stony  orbs  ;  so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed^  and  the  heautifid  shade 
Of  the  green  groves^  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions  


.    Where  the  pass  extends 
Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks. 
And  seems  with  its  accumulated  crags 
To  overhang  the  world ;  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars,  and  descending  moon, 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 
Dim  tracts  and  vast^  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  eveUy  and  flery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.    The  near  scene 
In  naked,  and  severe  simplicity 
Made  contrast  with  the  universe.    A  pine 
Rock-rooted,  stretch' d  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast. 
Yielding  one  only  response  at  each  pause. 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The  thunder,  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams, 
Mingling  its  solemn  song. 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  395 


In  this  last  passage,  the  mind  never  departs  from  its  sol- 
emn possession  of  the  solitary  scene,  the  imagination  only 
giving  weight,  meaning,  and  strange  human  sympathies  to 
all  its  sights  and  sounds. 

In  that  from  Scott,* — the  fancy,  led  away  by  the  outside 
resemblance  of  floating  form  and  hue  to  the  banners,  loses 
the  feeling  and  possession  of  the  scene,  and  places  herself  in 
circumstances  of  character  completely  opposite  to  the  quiet- 
ness and  grandeur  of  the  natural  objects  ;  this  would  have 
been  unjustifiable,  but  that  the  resemblance  occurs  to  the 
mind  of  the  monarch,  rather  than  to  that  of  the  poet  ;  and 
it  is  that,  which  of  all  others,  would  have  been  the  most 
likely  to  occur  at  the  time  ;  in  this  point  of  view  it  has  high 
imaginative  propriety.  Of  the  same  fanciful  character  is  that 
transformation  of  the  tree  trunks  into  dragons  noticed  be- 
fore in  Turner's  Jason  ;  and  in  the  same  way  this  becomes 
imaginative  as  it  exhibits  the  effect  of  fear  in  disposing  to 
morbid  perception.  Compare  with  it  the  real  and  high  ac- 
tion of  the  imagination  on  the  same  matter  in  Wordsworth's 
Yew  trees  (w^hich  I  consider  the  most  vigorous  and  solemn 
bit  of  forest  landscape  ever  painted)  : — 

' '  Each  particular  trunk  a  growth 

Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine, 

Up  coiling  and  inveterately  convolved, 

Not  uninformed  with  Phantasy^  and  looks 

That  threaten  the  ^profane. " 

It  is  too  long  to  quote,  but  the  reader  should  refer  to  it  : 
let  him  note  especially,  if  painter,  that  pure  touch  of  color, 
"^by  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged." 

*  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  mean  to  compare  the  sickly  dream- 
ing of  Shelley  over  clouds  and  waves  with  the  masculine  and  magnifi- 
cent grasp  of  men  and  things  which  we  find  in  Scott ;  it  only  happens 
that  these  two  passages  are  more  illustrative,  by  the  likeness  of  the 
scenery  they  treat,  than  any  others  I  could  have  opposed;  and  that 
Shelley  is  peculiarly  distinguished  by  the  faculty  of  contemplative  im- 
agination. Scott's  healthy  and  truthful  feeling  would  not  allow  him 
to  represent  the  benighted  hunter  provoked  by  loss  of  game,  horse, 
and  way  at  once,  as  indulging  in  any  more  exalted  flights  of  imagina- 
tion than  those  naturally  consequent  on  the  contrast  between  the 
night's  lodging  he  expected,  and  that  which  befitted  him. 


396  02^  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


In  the  same  way,  the  blasted  trunk  on  the  left,  in  Tur- 
ner's drawing  of  the  spot  where  Harold  fell  at  the  battle  of 
Hastings,  takes,  where  its  boughs  first  separate,  the  shape 
of  the  head  of  an  arrow  ;  this,  which  is  mere  fancy  in  itself, 
is  imagination  as  it  supposes  in  the  spectator  an  excited  con- 
dition of  feeling  dependent  on  the  history  of  the  spot. 

I  have  been  led  perhaps  into  too  great  detail  in  illustrat- 
ing these  points  ;  but  I  think  it  is  of  no  small  importance 
to  prove  how  in  all  cases  the  imagination  is  based  upon, 
§  7.  Morbid  or  ^-ud  appeals  to,  a  deep  heart  feeling  ;  and  how 
nervous  fancy,  faithful  and  earnest  it  is  in  contemplation  of  the 
subject  matter,  never  losing  sight  of  it,  or  disguising  it,  but 
depriving  it  of  extraneous  and  material  accidents,  and  regard- 
ing it  in  its  disembodied  essence.  I  have  not,  however,  suf- 
ficiently noted  in  opposition  to  it,  that  diseased  action  of  the 
fancy  which  depends  more  on  nervous  temperament  than  in- 
tellectual power  ;  and  which,  as  in  dreaming,  fever,  insanity, 
and  other  morbid  conditions  of  mind,  is  frequently  a  source 
of  daring  and  inventive  conception  ;  and  so  the  visionary  ap- 
pearances resulting  from  various  disturbances  of  the  frame 
by  passion,  and  from  the  rapid  tendency  of  the  mind  to  in- 
vest with  shape  and  intelligence  the  active  influences  about 
it,  as  in  the  various  demons,  spirits,  and  fairies  of  all  imag- 
inative nations  ;  which,  however,  I  consider  are  no  more  to 
be  ranked  as  right  creations  of  fancy  or  imagination  than 
things  actually  seen  and  heard  ;  for  the  action  of  the  nerves 
is  I  suppose  the  same,  whether  externally  caused,  or  from 
within,  although  very  grand  imagination  may  be  shown  by 
the  intellectual  anticipation  and  realization  of  such  impres- 
sions ;  as  in  that  glorious  vignette  of  Turner's  to  the  voyage 
of  Columbus.  Slowly  along  the  evening  sky  they  went." 
Note  especially  therein,  how  admirably  true  to  the  natural 
form,  and  yet  how  suggestive  of  the  battlement  he  has  ren- 
dered the  level  flake  of  evening  cloud. 

§8  The  action  ^  believe  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to 
of  contemplative  enter  into  farther  detail  of  illustration  respect- 

imagmation     is    .  .  p        p   ^^  •  pi 

not  to  be  ex-  ing  thesc  pomts  ;  for  fuller  explanation  of  the 
pressed  by  art.     operations   of   the   contemplative   faculty  on 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE,  397 


things  verbally  expressible,  the  reader  may  be  referred  to 
Wordsworth's  preface  to  his  poems  ;  it  only  remains  for  us, 
here,  to  examine  how  far  this  imaginative  or  abstract  con- 
ception is  to  be  conveyed  by  the  material  art  of  the  sculptor 
or  the  painter. 

Now,  it  is  evident  that  the  bold  action  of  either  the  fancy 
or  the  imagination,  dependent  on  a  bodiless  and  spiritual 
image  of  the  object,  is  not  to  be  by  lines  or  colors  represented. 
We  cannot,  in  the  painting  of  Satan  fallen,  suggest  any  im- 
age of  pines  or  crags, — neither  can  we  assimilate  the  brier  and 
the  banner,  nor  give  human  sympathy  to  the  motion  of  the 
film,  nor  voice  to  the  swinging  of  the  pines. 

Yet  certain  powers  there  are,  within  due  limits,  of  marking 
the  thing  represented  with  an  ideal  character  ;  and  it  was  to 
these  powers  that  I  alluded  in  defining  the 
narrow^^Smits?—  meaning  of  the  term  ideal,  in  the  thirteenth 

1st.  Abstract  ren-      i,         i?-!  ^'  j*  tt^       '  j.  • 

dering  of  form  chapter  oi  the  preceding  section,  ri  or  it  is  by 
without  color.  ^j^.g  operation  that  the  productions  of  high  art 
are  separated  from  those  of  the  realist. 

And,  first,  there  is  evidently  capability  of  separating  color 
and  form,  and  considering  either  separately.  Form  we  find 
abstractedly  considered  by  the  sculptor,  how  far  it  would  be 
possible  to  advantage  a  statue  by  the  addition  of  color,  I  vent- 
ure not  to  affirm  ;  the  question  is  too  extensive  to  be  here 
discussed.  High  authorities  and  ancient  practice,  are  in  fa- 
vor of  color  ;  so  the  sculpture  of  the  middle  ages  :  the  two 
statues  of  Mino  da  F]iesole  in  the  church  of  St^.  Caterina  at 
Pisa  have  been  colored,  the  irises  of  the  eyes  painted  dark, 
and  the  hair  gilded,  as  also  I  think  the  Madonna  in  St^.  Maria 
della  Spina  ;  the  eyes  have  been  painted  in  the  sculptures 
of  Orcagna  in  Or  San  Michele,  but  it  looks  like  a  remnant  of 
barbarism,  (compare  the  pulpit  of  Guida  da  Como,  in  the 
church  of  San  Bartolomeo  at  Pistoja,)  and  I  have  never  seen 
color  on  any  solid  forms,  that  did  not,  to  my  mind,  neutralize 
all  other  power  ;  the  porcelains  of  Luca  della  Robbia  are 
painful  examples,  and  in  lower  art,  Florentine  mosaic  in  re- 
lief ;  gilding  is  more  admissible,  and  tells  sometimes  sweetly 
upon  figures  of  quaint  design,  as  on  the  pulpit  of  St*,  Maria 


398         OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


Novella,  while  it  spoils  the  classical  ornaments  of  the  mould- 
ings. But  the  truest  grandeur  of  sculpture  I  believe  to  be 
in  the  white  form  ;  something  of  this  feeling  may  be  owing 
to  the  difficulty,  or  rather  the  impossibility,  of  obtaining  truly 
noble  color  upon  it,  but  if  we  could  color  the  Elgin  marbles 
with  the  flesh  tint  of  Giorgione,  I  had  rather  not  have  it  done. 

Color,  without  form,  is  less  frequently  obtainable,  and  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  it  be  desirable  :  yet  I  think  that  to 
the  full  enjoyment  of  it,  a  certain  abandonment  of  form  is 
§  10  Of  color  i^^c^ssary  ;  sometimes  by  reducing  it  to  the 
without  form.  shapeless  glitter  of  the  gem,  as  often  Tintoret 
and  Bassano  ;  sometimes  by  loss  of  outline  and  blending  of 
parts,  as  Turner  ;  sometimes  by  flatness  of  mass,  as  often 
Giorgione  and  Titian.  How  far  it  is  possible  for  the  painter 
to  represent  those  mountains  of  Shelley  as  the  poet  sees  them, 
"  mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,"  I  cannot  say  ;  but  my 
impression  is,  that  there  is  no  true  abstract  mode  of  consider- 
ing color  ;  and  that  all  the  loss  of  form  in  the  works  of  Titian 
or  Turner,  is  not  ideal,  but  the  representation  of  the  natural 
conditions  under  which  bright  color  is  seen  ;  for  form  is  always 
in  a  measure  lost  by  nature  herself  when  color  is  very  vivid. 

Again,  there  is  capability  of  representing  the  essential 
character,  form,  and  color  of  an  object,  without  external  text- 
ure. On  this  point  much  has  been  said  by  Reynolds  and 
§  11.  Or  of  both  c>thers,  and  it  is,  indeed,  perhaps  the  most  un- 
without  texture,  failing  charactei^stic  of  great  manner  in  paint- 
ing. Compare  a  dog  of  Edwin  Landseer  with  a  dog  of  Paul 
Veronese.  In  the  first,  the  outward  texture  is  wrought  out 
with  exquisite  dexterity  of  handling,  and  minute  attention  to 
all  the  accidents  of  curl  and  gloss  which  can  give  appearance 
of  reality,  while  the  hue  and  power  of  the  sunshine,  and  the 
truth  of  the  shadow  on  all  these  forms  is  necessarily  neglected, 
and  the  large  relations  of  the  animal  as  a  mass  of  color  to  the 
sky  or  ground,  or  other  parts  of  the  picture,  utterly  lost.  This 
is  realism  at  the  expense  of  ideality,  it  is  treatment  essentially 
unimaginative.*  With  Veronese,  there  is  no  curling  nor  crisp- 

*  I  do  not  mean  to  withdraw  the  praise  I  have  given,  and  shall  always 
be  willing  to  give  such  pictures  as  the  Old  Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner, 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  399 


ing,  no  glossiness  nor  sparkle,  hardly  even  hair,  a  mere  type 
of  hide,  laid  on  with  a  few  scene-painter's  touches.  But  the 
essence  of  dog  is  there,  the  entire  magnificent,  generic  animal 
type,  muscular  and  living,  and  with  broad,  pure,  sunny  day- 
light upon  him,  and  bearing  his  true  and  harmonious  relation 
of  color  to  all  color  about  him.    This  is  ideal  treatment. 

The  same  treatment  is  found  in  the  works  of  all  the  great- 
est men,  they  all  paint  the  lion  more  than  his  mane,  and  the 
horse  rather  than  his  hide  ;  and  I  think  also  they  are  more 
careful  to  obtain  the  right  expression  of  large  and  universal 
light  and  color,  than  local  tints  ;  for  the  warmth  of  sunshine, 
and  the  force  of  sun-lighted  hue  are  always  sublime  on  what- 
ever subject  they  may  be  exhibited  ;  and  so  also  are  light 
and  shade,  if  grandly  arranged,  as  may  be  well  seen  in  an 
etching  of  Rembrandt's  of  a  spotted  shell,  which  he  has  made 
altogether  sublime  by  broad  truth  and  large  ideality  of  light 
and  shade  ;  and  so  I  have  seen  frequent  instances  of  very 
grand  ideality  in  treatment  of  the  most  commonplace  still 
life,  by  our  own  Hunt,  where  the  petty  glosses  and  delica- 
cies, and  minor  forms,  are  all  merged  in  a  broad  glow  of  suf- 
fused color  ;  so  also  in  pieces  of  the  same  kind  by  Etty, 
where,  however,  though  the  richness  and  play  of  color  are 
greater,  and  the  arrangement  grander,  there  is  less  expres- 
sion of  light,  neither  is  there  anything  in  modern  art  that  can 
be  set  beside  some  choice  passages  of  Hunt  in  this  respect. 
§  12.  Abstraction  Again,  it  is  possible  to  represent  objects  ca- 
senSn  o?ant-  P^-ble  of  various  accidcnts  in  a  generic  or  sym- 

malform.  boUcal  form. 

How  far  this  may  be  done  with  things  having  necessary 
form,  as  animals,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  The  lions  of  the 
Egyptian  room  in  the  British  Museum,  and  the  fish  beside^ 
Michael  Angelo's  Jonah,  are  instances  ;  and  there  is  imagin- 
ative power  about  both  which  we  find  not  in  the  more  per- 
fectly realized  Florentine  boar,  nor  in  Raffaelle's  fish  of  the 

and  to  all  in  which  the  character  and  inner  life  of  animals  are  developed. 
But  all  lovers  of  art  must  regret  to  find  Mr.  Landseer  wasting  his  ener- 
gies on  such  inanities  as  the  Shoeing,"  and  sacrificing  color,  expres- 
sion, and  action,  to  an  imitation  of  glossy  hide. 


400  OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


draught.  And  yet  the  propriety  and  nobility  of  these  types 
depend  on  the  architectural  use  and  character  of  the  one, 
and  on  the  typical  meaning  of  the  other  :  we  should  be 
grieved  to  see  the  forms  of  the  Egyptian  lion  substituted 
for  those  of  Raffaelle's  in  its  struggle  with  Samson,  nor  would 
the  whale  of  Michael  Angelo  be  tolerated  in  the  nets  of  Gen- 
nesaret.  So  that  I  think  it  is  only  when  the  figure  of  the 
creature  stands  not  for  any  representation  of  vitality,  but 
merely  for  a  letter  or  type  of  certain  symbolical  meaning,  or 
else  is  adopted  as  a  grand  form  of  decoration  or  support  in 
architecture,  that  such  generalization  is  allowable,  and  in 
such  circumstances  I  think  it  necessary,  always  provided  it 
be  based,  as  in  the  instances  given  I  conceive  it  to  be,  upon 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  creature  symbolized  and  wrought 
out  by  a  master  hand  ;  and  these  conditions  being  observed, 
I  believe  it  to  be  vmht  and  necessary  in  archi- 

§  13.  Either  when  f  . 

it  iP  symbolically  tecture  to  modify  all  animal  forms  by  a  severe 
architectural  stamp,  and  in  symbolical  use  of 
them,  to  adopt  a  typical  form,  to  which  practice  the  con- 
trary, and  its  evil  consequences  are  ludicrously  exhibited 
in  the  St.  Peter  of  Carlo  Dolci  in  the  Pitti  palace,  which 
owing  to  the  prominent,  glossy-plumed  and  crimson-combed 
cock,  is  liable  to  be  taken  for  the  portrait  of  a  poulterer,  only 
let  it  be  observed  that  the  treatment  of  the  animal  form 
here  is  offensive,  not  only  from  its  realization,  but  from  the 
pettiness  and  meanness  of  its  realization  ;  for  it  might,  in 
other  hands  but  Carlo  Dolci's,  have  been  a  sublime  cock, 
though  a  real  one,  but  in  his,  it  is  fit  for  nothing  but  the 
spit.  Compare  as  an  example  partly  of  symbolical  treat- 
ment, partly  of  magnificent  realization,  that  supernatural 
lion  of  Tintoret,  in  the  picture  of  the  Doge  Loredano  before 
the  Madonna,  with  the  plumes  of  his  mighty  wings  clashed 
together  in  cloudlike  repose,  and  the  strength  of  the  sea 
winds  shut  within  their  folding.  And  note  farther  the  dif- 
ference between  the  t3''pical  use  of  the  animal,  as  in  this  case, 
and  that  of  the  fish  of  Jonah,  and  (again  the  fish  before  men- 
tioned whose  form  is  indicated  in  the  clouds  of  the  baptism), 
and  the  actual  occurrence  of  the  creature  itself,  with  con- 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  401 


cealed  meaning,  as  the  ass  colt  of  the  crucifixion,  which  it 
was  necessary  to  paint  as  such,  and  not  as  an  ideal  form. 

I  cannot  enter  here  into  the  question  of  the  exact  degree 
of  severity  and  abstraction  necessary  in  the  forms  of  living 
things  architecturally  employed  ;  my  own  feeling  on  the 
subject  is,  though  I  dare  not  lay  it  down  as  a 
Lcturai^  ^decora-  principle,  (with  the  Parthenon  pediment  stand- 
ing  against  me  like  the  shield  of  A  jax,)  that  no 
perfect  representation  of  animal  form  is  right  in  architect- 
ural decoration.  For  my  own  part,  I  had  much  rather  see 
the  metopes  in  the  Elgin  room  of  the  British  Museum,  and 
the  Parthenon  without  them,  than  have  them  together,  and 
I  would  not  surrender,  in  an  architectural  point  of  view,  one 
mighty  line  of  the  colossal,  quiet,  life-in-death  statue  moun- 
tains in  Egypt  with  their  narrow  fixed  eyes  and  hands  on 
their  rocky  limbs,  nor  one  Romanesque  fa9ade  with  its  por- 
phyry mosaic  of  indefinable  monsters,  nor  one  Gothic  mould- 
ing of  rigid  saints  and  grinning  goblins,  for  ten  Parthenons  ; 
and,  I  believe,  I  could  show  some  rational  ground  for  this 
seeming  barbarity  if  this  were  the  place  to  do  so,  but  at 
present  I  can  only  ask  the  reader  to  compare  the  effect  of 
the  so-called  barbarous  ancient  mosaics  on  the  front  of  St. 
Mark's,  as  they  have  been  recorded,  happily,  by  the  faithful- 
ness of  the  good  Gentile  Bellini,  in  one  of  his  pictures  now 
in  the  Venice  gallery,  with  the  veritably  barbarous  pictorial 
substitutions  of  the  fifteenth  century,  (one  only  of  the  old 
mosaics  remains,  or  did  remain  till  lately,  over  the  northern 
door,  but  it  is  probably  by  this  time  torn  down  by  some  of 
the  Venetian  committees  of  taste,)  and  also  I  would  have 
the  old  portions  of  the  interior  ceiling,  or  of  the  mosaics  of 
Murano  and  Torcello,  and  the  glorious  Cimabue  mosaic  of 
Pisa,  and  the  roof  of  the  Baptistery  at  Parma,  (that  of  the 
Florence  Baptistery  is  a  bad  example,  owing  to  its  crude 
whites  and  complicated  mosaic  of  small  forms,)  all  of  which 
are  as  barbarous  as  they  can  well  be,  in  a  certain  sense,  but 
mighty  in  their  barbarism,  with  any  architectural  decorations 
whatsoever,  consisting  of  professedly  perfect  animal  forms, 
from  the  vile  frescoes  of  Federigo  Zuccaro  at  Florence  to 
Vol.  II.— 26 


402  OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine,  and  again  compare  the  professed- 
ly perfect  sculpture  of  Milan  Cathedral  with  the  statues  of 
§15.  Exception  the  porches  of  Ohartres  ;  only  be  it  always  ob- 
superimposed^or^-  Served  that  it  is  not  rudeness  and  ignorance  of 
nament.  ^^t^  but  intellectually  awful  abstraction  that  I 

uphold,  and  also  be  it  noted  that  in  all  ornament,  which  takes 
place  in  the  general  effect  merely  as  so  much  fretted  stone, 
in  capitals  and  other  pieces  of  minute  detail,  the  forms  may 
be,  and  perhaps  ought  to  be,  elaborately  imitative  ;  and  in 
this  respect  again,  the  capitals  of  St.  Mark's  church,  and  of 
the  Doge's  palace  at  Venice  may  be  an  example  to  the  archi- 
tects of  all  the  world,  in  their  boundless  inventiveness,  un- 
failing elegance,  and  elaborate  finish  ;  there  is  more  mind 
poured  out  in  turning  a  single  angle  of  that  church  than  would 
serve  to  build  a  modern  cathedral ;  *  and  of  the  careful  finish 
of  the  work,  this  may  serve  for  example,  that  one  of  the 
capitals  of  the  Doge's  palace  is  formed  of  eight  heads  oi 
different  animals,  of  which  one  is  a  bear's  with  a  honey- 
comb in  the  mouth,  whose  carved  cells  are  hexagonal. 

So  far,  then,  of  the  abstraction  proper  to  architecture,  and 
to  symbolical  uses,  of  which  I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak 
hereafter  at  length,  referring  to  it  only  at  present  as  one  of 
§16.  Abstraction  the  Operations  of  imagination  contemplative; 
hnp?rfection*^^S  Other  abstractions  there  are  which  are  neces- 
materiais.  sarily  Consequent  on  the  imperfection  of  mate- 

rials, as  of  the  hair  in  sculpture,  which  is  necessarily  treated 
in  masses  that  are  in  no  sort  imitative,  but  only  stand  for  hair, 

*  I  have  not  brought  forward  any  instances  of  the  imaginative  pow- 
er in  architecture,  as  my  object  is  not  at  present  to  exhibit  its  opera- 
tion in  all  matter,  but  only  to  define  its  essence  ;  but  it  may  be  well  to 
note,  in  our  own  new  houses  of  Parliament,  how  far  a  building  ap- 
proved by  a  committee  of  Taste,  may  proceed  without  manifestation 
either  of  imagination  or  composition  ;  it  remains  to  be  seen  how  far 
the  towers  may  redeem  it ;  and  I  allude  to  it  at  present  unwillingly, 
and  only  in  the  desire  of  influencing,  so  far  as  I  may,  those  who  have  the 
power  to  prevent  the  adoption  of  a  design  for  a  bridge  to  take  the  place 
of  Westminster,  which  was  exhibited  in  1844  at  the  Royal  Academy, 
professing  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  new  building,  but  which  was  fit 
only  to  carry  a  railroad  over  a  canal. 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  403 


and  have  the  grace,  flow,  and  feeling  of  it  without  the  text- 
ure or  division,  and  other  abstractions  there  are  in  which  the 
form  of  one  thing  is  fancifully  indicated  in  the  matter  of 
another  ;  as  in  phantoms  and  cloud  shapes,  the  'use  of  which, 
in  mighty  hands,  is  often  most  impressive,  as  in  the  cloudy 
charioted  Apollo  of  Nicolo  Poussin  in  our  own  gallery,  which 
the  reader  may  oppose  to  the  substantial  Apollo,  in  Wil- 
son's Niobe,  and  again  the  phantom  vignette  of  Turner  al- 
ready noticed  ;  only  such  operations  of  the  imagination  are 
to  be  held  of  lower  kind  and  dangerous  consequence,  if  fre- 
quently trusted  in,  for  those  painters  only  have  the  right  im- 
aginative power  who  can  set  the  supernatural  form  before  us 
fleshed  and  boned  like  ourselves.*  Other  abstractions  occur, 
frequently,  of  things  which  have  much  accidental  variety  of 
§17  Abstractions  f^™?  waves,  on  Greek  sculptures  in  suc- 

of  things  capa-  ccssive  volutcs,  and  of  clouds  often  in  support- 

ble  of  varied  ac-    .  .   ^  ,  ^  ^ 

cident  are  not  im-  ing  volumes  in  the  sacred  pictures;  but  these 

aginative.  ^  ^         ,ii  ^         p  •  .  .. 

i  do  not  look  upon  as  results  oi  imagination  at 
all,  but  mere  signs  and  letters  ;  and  whenever  a  very  highly 
imaginative  mind  touches  them,  it  always  realizes  as  far.  as 
may  be.  Even  Titian  is  content  to  use  at  the  top  of  his  St. 
Pietro  Martiri,  the  conventional,  round,  opaque  cloud,  which 
cuts  his  trees  open  like  a  gouge  ;  but  Tintoret,  in  his  picture 
of  the  Golden  Calf,  though  compelled  to  represent  the  Sinai 
under  conventional  form,  in  order  that  the  receiving  of  the 
tables  might  be  seen  at  the  top  of  it,  yet  so  soon  as  it  is 
possible  to  give  more  truth,  he  is  ready  with  it  ;  he  takes  a 
grand  fold  of  horizontal  cloud  straight  from  the  flanks'  of 
the  Alps,  and  shows  the  forests  of  the  mountains  through  its 
misty  volumes,  like  sea-weed  through  deep  sea.f  Neverthe- 
less, when  the  realization  is  impossible,  bold  symbolism  is  of 
§  18.  Yet  some-  ^^^^  highest  value,  and  in  religious  art,  as  we 
times  valuable.  shall  presently  see,  even  necessary,  as  of  the 
rays  of  light  in  the  Titian  woodcut  of  St.  Francis  before 

*  Comp.  Ch.  V.  §  5. 

f  All  the  clouds  of  Tintoret  are  sublime  ;  the  worst  that  I  know  in 
art  are  Correggio's,  especially  in  the  Madonna  della  Scudella,  and  Dome 
of  Parma. 


404         OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


noticed  ;  and  sometimes  the  attention  is  directed  by  some 
such  strange  form  to  the  meaning  of  the  image,  which  may 
be  missed  if  it  remains  in  its  natural  purity,  (as,  I  suppose, 
few  in  looking  at  the  Oephalus  and  Procris  of  Turner,  note 
the  sympathy  of  those  faint  rays  that  are  just  drawing  back 
and  dying  between  the  trunks  of  the  far-off  forest,  with  the 
ebbing  life  of  the  nymph  ;  unless,  indeed,  they  happen  to 
recollect  the  same  sympathy  marked  by  Shelley  in  the  Alas- 
tor  ;)  but  the  imagination  is  not  shown  in  any  such  modifi- 
cations ;  however,  in  some  cases  they  may  be  valuable  (in 
the  Cephalus  they  would  be  utterly  destructive,)  and  I  note 
them  merely  in  consequence  of  their  peculiar  use  in  religious 
art,  presently  to  be  examined. 

The  last  mode  we  have  here  to  note  in  which  the  imao:ina- 
§  19  Exaggera-  ^^^^  regardant  may  be  expressed  in  art  is  ex- 
tion.  Its  laws  afiffiferation,  of  which,  as  it  is  the  vice  of  all  bad 

and  limits.  First,  ^  ^ 

in  scale  of  repre-  artists,  and  may  be  constantly  resorted  to  with- 

sentation.  ,  .      o   *         .       .  . 

out  any  warrant  oi  imagination,  it  is  necessary 
to  note  strictly  the  admissable  limits. 

In  the  first  place,  a  colossal  statue  is  necessarily  no  more 
an  exaggeration  of  what  it  represents  than  a  miniature  is  a 
diminution,  it  need  not  be  a  representation  of  a  giant,  but  a 
representation,  on  a  large  scale,  of  a  man  ;  only  it  is  to  be 
observed,  that  as  any  plane  intersecting  the  cone  of  rays  be- 
tween us  and  the  object,  must  receive  an  image  smaller  than 
the  object  ;  a  small  image  is  rationally  and  completely  ex- 
pressive of  a  larger  one  ;  but  not  a  large  of  a  small  one. 
Hence  I  think  that  all  statues  above  the  Elgin  standard,  or 
that  of  Michael  Angelo's  Night  and  Morning,  are,  in  a  meas- 
ure, taken  by  the  eye  for  representations  of  giants,  and  I 
think  them  always  disagreeable.  The  amount  of  exaggera- 
tion admitted  by  Michael  Angelo  is  valuable  because  it  sep- 
arates the  emblematic  from  the  human  form,  and  gives  greater 
freedom  to  the  grand  lines  of  the  frame  ;  for  notice  of  his 
scientific  system  of  increase  of  size  I  may  refer  the  reader  to 
Sir  Charles  Bell's  remarks  on  the  statues  of  the  Medici 
chapel  ;  but  there  is  one  circumstance  which  Sir  Charles  has 
not  noticed,  and  in  the  interpretation  of  which,  therefore,  it 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE,  405 


is  likely  I  may  be  myself  wrong  ;  that  the  extremities  are 
singularly  small  in  proportion  to  the  limbs,  by  which  means 
there  is  an  expression  given  of  strength  and  activity  greater 
than  in  the  ordinary  human  type,  which  appears  to  me  to  be 
an  allowance  for  that  alteration  in  proportion  necessitated  by 
increase  of  size,  of  which  we  took  note  in  Chap.  VI.  of  the 
first  section,  §  10,  note  ;  not  but  that  Michael  Angelo  always 
makes  the  extremities  comparatively  small,  but  smallest,  com- 
paratively, in  his  largest  works  ;  so  I  think,  from  the  size  of 
the  head,  it  may  be  conjectured  respecting  the  Theseus  of  the 
Elgins.  Such  adaptations  are  not  necessary  when  the  exag- 
gerated image  is  spectral  :  for  as  the  laws  of  matter  in  that 
case  can  have  no  operation,  we  may  expand  the  form  as 
far  as  we  choose,  only  let  careful  distinction  be  made  between 
the  size  of  the  thing  represented,  and  the  scale  of  the  repre- 
sentation. The  canvas  on  which  Fuseli  has  stretched  his 
Satan  in  the  schools  of  the  Royal  Academy  is  a  mere  con- 
cession to  inability.  He  might  have  made  him  look  more 
gigantic  in  one  of  a  foot  square. 

Another  kind  of  exaggeration  is  of  things  whose  size  is 
variable  to  a  size  or  degree  greater  than  that  usual  with  them, 
as  in  waves  and  mountains  ;  and  there  are  hardly  any  limits 
§  20.  Secondly,  to  this  exaggeration  so  long  as  the  laws  which 
of  ^v'afiet^y^if  nature  observes  in  her  increase  be  observed. 

Thus,  for  instance  :  the  form  and  polished  sur- 
face of  a  breaking  ripple  three  inches  high,  are  not  repre- 
sentation of  either  the  form  or  the  surface  of  the  surf  of  a 
storm,  nodding  ten  feet  above  the  beach  ;  neither  would  the 
cutting  ripple  of  a  breeze  upon  a  lake  if  simply  exaggerated, 
represent  the  forms  of  Atlantic  surges  ;  but  as  nature  in- 
creases her  bulk,  she  diminishes  the  angles  of  ascent,  and  in- 
creases her  divisions  ;  and  if  we  would  represent  surges  of 
size  greater  than  ever  existed,  which  it  is  lawful  to  do,  we 
must  carry  out  these  operations  to  still  greater  extent.  Thus, 
Turner,  in  his  picture  of  the  Slave  Ship,  divides  the  whole 
sea  into  two  masses  of  enormous  swell,  and  conceals  the  hori- 
zon by  a  gradual  slope  of  only  two  or  three  degrees.  This 
is  intellectual  exaggeration.    In  the  Academy  exhibition  of 


406         OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


1843,  there  was,  in  one  of  the  smaller  rooms,  a  black  picture 
of  a  storm,  in  which  there  appeared  on  the  near  sea,  just 
about  to  be  overwhelmed  by  an  enormous  breaker,  curling 
right  over  it,  an  object  at  first  sight  liable  to  be  taken  for  a 
walnut  shell,  but  which,  on  close  examination,  proved  to  be  a 
ship  with  mast  and  sail,  with  Christ  and  his  twelve  disciples 
in  it.  This  is  childish  exaggeration,  because  it  is  impossible, 
by  the  laws  of  matter  and  motion,  that  such  a  breaker  should 
ever  exist.  Again  in  mountains,  we  have  repeatedly  observed 
the  necessary  building  up  and  multitudinous  division  of  the 
higher  peaks,  and  the  smallness  of  the  slopes  by  which  they 
usually  rise.  We  may,  therefore,  build  up  the  mountain  as 
high  as  we  please,  but  we  must  do  it  in  nature's  way,  and  not 
in  impossible  peaks  and  precipices  ;  not  but  that  a  daring 
feature  is  admissible  here  and  there,  as  the  Matterhorn  is 
admitted  by  nature  ;  but  we  must  not  compose  a  picture  out 
of  such  exceptions  ;  we  may  use  them,  but  they  must  be  as 
exceptions  exhibited.  I  shall  have  much  to  say,  when  we 
come  to  treat  of  the  sublime,  of  the  various  modes  of  treating 
mountain  form,  so  that  at  present  I  shall  only  point  to  an 
unfortunate  instance  of  inexcusable  and  effectless  exaggera- 
tion in  the  distance  of  Turner's  vignette  to  Milton,  (the  temp- 
tation on  the  mountain,)  and  desire  the  reader  to  compare  it 
with  legitimate  exaggeration,  in  the  vignette  to  the  second 
part  of  Jacqueline,  in  Rogers's  poems. 

Another  kind  of  exaggeration  is  necessary  to  retain  the 
characteristic  impressions  of  nature  on  reduced  scale  ;  it  is 
not  possible,  for  instance,  to  give  the  leafage  of  trees  in  its 
proper  proportion,  when  the  trees  represented 

§  21.  Thirdly,  nec-  ^     \       ^     ^.  .  -ii. 

essary  in  expres-  are  large,  without  entirely  losing  their  grace  oi 

sion  of  character-  ^  i?  ±.C   u     i.  St  ' 

istic  features  on  lorm  and  curvature  ;  oi  this  the  best  proot  is 

diminished  scale.      «         i  '     ,^  ^    ,  t-\  ^  1-*t_ 

found  in  the  Calotype  or  Daguerreotype,  which 
fail  in  foliage,  not  only  because  the  green  rays  are  ineffective, 
but  because,  on  the  small  scale  of  the  image,  the  reduced 
leaves  lose  their  organization,  and  look  like  moss  attached  to 
sticks.  In  order  to  retain,  therefore,  the  character  of  flexi- 
bility and  beauty  of  foliage,  the  painter  is  often  compelled 
to  increase  the  proportionate  size  of  the  leaves,  and  to  ar-^ 


OF  THE  SVPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


407 


range  them  in  generic  masses.  Of  this  treatment  compare 
the  grand  examples  throughout  the  Liber  Studiorum.  It  is 
by  such  means  only  that  the  ideal  character  of  objects  is  to 
be  preserved  ;  as  we  before  observed  in  the  13th  chapter  of 
the  first  section.  In  all  these  cases  exaggeration  is  only  law- 
ful as  the  sole  means  of  arriving  at  truth  of  impression  when, 
strict  fidelity  is  out  of  the  question. 

Other  modes  of  exaggeration  there  are,  on  which  I  shall 
not  at  present  farther  insist,  the  proper  place  for  their  dis- 
cussion being  in  treating  of  the  sublime,  and  these  which  I 
have  at  present  instanced  are  enough  to  establish  the  point 
at  issue,  respecting  imaginative  verity,  inasmuch  as  we  find 
that  exaggeration  itself,  if  imaginative,  is  referred  to  princi- 
ples of  truth,  and  of  actual  being. 

We  have  now,  I  think,  reviewed  the  various  modes  in  which 
imagination  contemplative  may  be  exhibited  in  art,  and  ar- 
rived at  all  necessary  certainties  respecting  the  essence  of  the 
§  22.  Recapitu-  f^culty  I  which  wc  havc  found  in  all  its  three 
functions,  associative  of  truth,  penetrative  of 
truth,  and  contemplative  of  truth  ;  and  having  no  dealings 
nor  relations  with  any  kind  of  falsity.  One  task,  how- 
ever, remains  to  us,  namely,  to  observe  the  operation  of  the 
theoretic  and  imaginative  faculties  together,  in  the  attempt 
at  realization  to  the  bodily  sense  of  beauty  supernatural  and 
divine. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF  THE  SUPEEHUMAN  IDEAL. 

In  our  investigation  in  the  first  section  of  the  laws  of 
beauty,  we  confined  ourselves  to  the  observation  of  lower 
nature,  or  of  humanity.  We  were  prevented  from  proceeding 
to  deduce  conclusions  respectiner  divine  ideality 

§1.  The  subject   ,  4.         •       ..l,  /ir       j  •      •  1 

is  not  to  be  here  by  our  not  having  then  established  any  principles 
treated  in  detail.  j.(3spg(>|-ijjg  ^\^q  imaginative  faculty,  by  which, 

under  the  discipline  of  the  theoretic,  such  ideality  is  con- 
ceived.   I  had  purposed  to  conclude  the  present  section  by  a 


408  OF  THE  SUPEBHUMAN  IDEAL, 


careful  examination  of  this  subject  ;  but  as  this  is  evidently 
foreign  to  the  matter  immediately  under  discussion,  and  in- 
volves questions  of  great  intricacy  respecting  the  develop- 
ment of  mind  among  those  pagan  nations  who  are  supposed 
to  have  produced  high  examples  of  spiritual  ideality,  I  believe 
it  will  be  better  to  delay  such  inquiries  until  we  have  con- 
cluded our  detailed  observation  of  the  beauty  of  visible  nat- 
ure ;  and  I  shall  therefore  at  present  take  notice  only  of  one 
or  two  broad  principles,  which  were  referred  to,  or  implied, 
in  the  chapter  respecting  the  human  ideal,  and  without  the 
enunciation  of  which  that  chapter  might  lead  to  false  con- 
clusions. 

There  are  four  ways  in  which  beings  supernatural  may  be 
conceived  as  manifestinp;  themselves  to  human 

§  2.  The  conceiv-  mi      r>         i  i 

able  modes  of  scnsc.    The  first,  by  external  types,  signs,  or  in- 

manif  estation  of^  r-\     s  ,      -\r  'in 

Spiritual  Beings  nucnces  ;  as  (jrod  to  Moses  in  the  names  oi  the 
arefoui.  bush,  and  to  Elijah  in  the  voice  of  Horeb. 

The  second,  by  the  assuming  of  a  form  not  properly  belong- 
ing to  them  ;  as  the  Holy  Spirit  of  that  of  a  Dove,  the  second 
person  of  the  Trinity  of  that  of  a  Lamb  ;  and  so  such  mani- 
festations, under  angelic  or  other  form,  of  the  first  person  of 
the  Trinity,  as  seem  to  have  been  made  to  Abraham,  Moses, 
and  Ezekiel. 

The  third,  by  the  manifestation  of  a  form  properly  belong- 
ing to  them,  but  not  necessarily  seen  ;  as  of  the  Risen  Christ 
to  his  disciples  when  the  doors  were  shut.  And  the  fourth, 
by  their  operation  on  the  human  form,  which  they  influence 
or  inspire,  as  in  the  shining  of  the  face  of  Moses. 

It  is  evident  that  in  all  these  cases,  wherever  there  is  form 
at  all,  it  is  the  form  of  some  creature  to  us  known.  It  is  no 
new  form  peculiar  to  spirit  nor  can  it  be.  We  can  conceive 
§3.  And  these  are  of  none.  Our  inquiry  is  simply,  therefore,  by 
crerture^forms  fa-  ^^^^^  modifications  those  crcature  forms  to  us 
miliar  to  us.  known,  as  of  a  lamb,  a  bird,  or  a  human  creat- 
ure, may  be  explained  as  signs  or  habitations  of  Divinity, 
or  of  angelic  essence,  and  not  creatures  such  as  they  seem. 

This  may  be  done  in  two  ways.  First,  by  effecting  some 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  creature  inconsistent  with 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


409 


its  actual  nature,  as  by  giving  it  colossal  size,  or  unnatural 
color,  or  material,  as  of  gold,  or  silver,  or  flame,  instead  of 
§  4  Supernatural  ^^^^^5  taking  avvay  its  property  of  matter 

character  may  be  alto2^ether,  and  formins;  it  of  lio^ht  or  shade,  or 

impressed  on    .       °  ,        ^         .  /.  i 

these  either  by  m  an  intermediate  step,  of  cloud,  or  vapor :  or 

phenomena  incon-  ,   .    .        .     ,  . ,  , 

sistent  with  their  explaining  it  by  terrible  concomitant  circum- 

common     nature      .  «  n     •     ^  i       i  i 

(compare  Chap,  stauccs,  as  ot  wounds  in  the  body,  or  strange 
IV.,  §  iG).  lights  and  seemings  round  about  it  ;  or  by 

joining  of  two  bodies  together  as  in  angels'  wings.  Of  all 
which  means  of  attaining  supernatural  character  (which 
though,  in  their  nature  ordinary  and  vulgar,  are  yet  effec- 
tive and  very  glorious  in  mighty  hands)  we  have  already 
seen  the  limits  in  speaking  of  the  imagination. 

But  the  second  means  of  obtaining  supernatural  character 
is  that  with  which  we  are  now  concerned,  namely,  retaining 
the  actual  form  in  its  full  and  material  presence,  and  without 
§  5.  Or  by  inher-  f  rom  any  external  interpretation  whatsoever, 
ent  Dignity.  raisc  that  form  by  mere  inherent  dignity  to 

such  a  pitch  of  power  and  impressiveness  as  cannot  but  assert 
and  stamp  it  for  superhuman. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  Oampo  Santo  at  Pisa,  are  a  series 
of  paintings  from  the  Old  Testament  History  by  Benozzo 
Gozzoli.  In  the  earlier  of  these  angelic  presences,  mingled 
with  human,  occur  frequently,  illustrated  by  no  awfulness  of 
light,  nor  incorporeal  tracing.  Clear  revealed  they  move,  in 
human  forms,  in  the  broad  daylight  and  on  the  open  earth, 
side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand  with  men.  But  they  never 
miss  of  the  angel. 

He  who  can  do  this  has  reached  the  last  pinnacle  and  ut- 
most power  of  ideal,  or  any  other  art.  He  stands  in  no  need 
thenceforward,  of  cloud,  nor  lightning,  nor  tempest,  nor  terror 
of  mystery.  His  sublime  is  independent  of  the  elements.  It 
is  of  that  which  shall  stand  when  they  shall  melt  with  fervent 
heat,  and  light  the  firmament  when  the  sun  is  as  sackcloth 
of  hair. 

6  It  Of  th  consider  by  what  means  this  has  been 

expression  of  in-  effected,  SO  far  as  they  are  by  analysis  trace- 
bpiration.  ^^j^  ^         ^^^^  ^^^^        here,  as  always, 


410  OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


we  find  that  the  greater  part  of  what  has  been  rightly  ac- 
complished has  been  done  by  faith  and  intense  feeling,  and 
cannot,  by  aid  of  any  rules  or  teaching,  be  either  tried, 
estimated,  or  imitated. 

And  first,  of  the  expression  of  supernatural  influence  on 
forms  actually  human,  as  of  sibyl  or  prophet.  It  is  evident 
that  not  only  here  is  it  unnecessary,  but  we  are  not  altogether 
at  liberty  to  trust  for  expression  to  the  utmost  ennobling  of 
the  human  form  ;  for  we  cannot  do  more  than  this,  when  that 
form  is  to  be  the  actual  representation,  and  not  the  recipient 
of  divine  presence.  Hence,  in  order  to  retain  the  actual  hu- 
manity definitely,  we  must  leave  upon  it  such  signs  of  the 
operation  of  sin  and  the  liability  to  death  as  are  consistent 
with  human  ideality,  and  often  more  than  these,  definite  signs 
of  immediate  and  active  evil,  when  the  prophetic  spirit  is  to 
be  expressed  in  men  such  as  were  Saul  and  Balaam  ;  neither 
may  we  ever,  with  just  discrimination,  touch  the  utmost  lim- 
its of  beauty  in  human  form  when  inspiration  is  to  be  ex- 
pressed, and  not  angelic  or  divine  being  ;  of  which  reserve 
and  subjection  the  most  instructive  instances  are  found  in  the 
works  of  Angelico,  who  invariably  uses  inferior  types  for  the 
features  of  humanity,  even  glorified,  (excepting  always  the 
Madonna,)  nor  ever  exerts  his  full  power  of  beauty  either  in 
feature  or  expression,  except  in  angels  or  in  the  Madonna  or 
in  Christ.  Now  the  expression  of  spiritual  influence  without 
supreme  elevation  of  the  bodily  type  we  have  seen  to  be  a 
work  of  imagination  penetrative,  and  we  found  it  accom- 
plished by  Michael  Angelo  ;  but  I  think  by  him  only.  I  am 
aware  of  no  one  else  who,  to  my  mind,  has  expressed  the  in- 
spiration of  prophet  or  sibyl  ;  this,  however,  I  affirm  not,  but 
shall  leave  to  the  determination  of  the  reader,  as  the  prin- 
ciples at  present  to  be  noted  refer  entirely  to  that  elevation 
of  the  creature  form  necessary  when  it  is  actually  represen- 
tative of  a  spiritual  being. 

I  have  affirmed  in  the  conclusion  of  the  first 

§  7.  No  represen-  »     i  i  •  i  • 

tation  of  that  scction  that  "  of  that  which  IS  more  than  creat- 
than  creature  is  ure,  no  creaturc  ever  conceived."  I  think  this 
pobsibie.  almost  self-evident,  for  it  is  clear  that  the  illim- 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL.  411 


itableness  of  Divine  attributes  cannot  be  by  matter  repre- 
sented, (though  it  may  be  typified,)  and  I  believe  that  all  who 
are  acquainted  with  the  range  of  sacred  art  will  admit,  not 
only  that  no  representation  of  Christ  has  ever  been  even  par- 
tially successful,  but  that  the  greatest  painters  fall  therein 
below  their  accustomed  level  ;  Perugino  and  Fra  Angelico 
especially  ;  Leonardi  has  I  think  done  best,  but  perhaps  the 
beauty  of  the  fragment  left  at  Milan,  (for  in  spite  of  all  that 
is  said  of  repainting  and  destruction,  that  Cenacolo  is  still 
the  finest  in  existence)  is  as  much  dependent  on  the  very  un- 
traceableness  resulting  from  injury  as  on  its  original  perfec- 
tion. Of  more  daring  attempts  at  representation  of  Divinity 
we  need  not  speak  ;  only  this  is  to  be  noted  respecting  them, 
that  though  by  the  ignorant  Romanists  many  such  efforts 
were  made  under  the  idea  of  actual  representation,  (note  the 
way  in  which  Cellini  speaks  of  the  seal  made  for  the  Pope,) 
by  the  nobler  among  them  I  suppose  they  were  intended, 
and  by  us  at  any  rate  they  may  always  be  received,  as  mere 
symbols,  the  noblest  that  could  be  employed,  but  as  much 
symbols  still  as  a  triangle,  or  the  Alpha  and  Omega  ;  nor  do 
I  think  that  the  most  scrupulous  amongst  Christians  ought 
to  desire  to  exchange  the  power  obtained  by  the  use  of  this 
symbol  in  Michael  Angelo's  creation  of  Adam  and  of  Eve 
for  the  effect  which  would  be  produced  by  the  substitution 
of  a  triangle  or  any  other  sign  in  place  of  it.  Of  these  ef- 
forts then  we  need  reason  no  farther,  but  may  limit  our- 
selves to  considering  the  purest  modes  of  giving  a  concep- 
tion of  superhuman  but  still  creature  form,  as  of  angels  ;  in 
equal  rank  with  whom,  perhaps,  we  may  without  offence 
place  the  mother  of  Christ  :  at  least  we  must  so  regard  the 
type  of  the  Madonna  in  receiving  it  from  Romanist  painters.* 

*  I  take  no  note  of  the  representation  of  evil  spirits,  since  throughout 
we  have  been  occupied  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty  ;  but  it  may  be  ob- 
served generally  that  there  is  great  difficulty  to  be  overcome  in  attempts 
of  this  kind,  because  the  elevation  of  the  form  necessary  to  give  it  spir- 
ituality destroys  the  appearance  of  evil ;  hence  even  the  greatest  paint- 
ers have  been  reduced  to  receive  aid  from  the  fancy,  and  to  eke  out  all 
they  could  conceive  of  malignity  by  help  of  horns,  hoofs,  and  claws. 
Giotto's  Satan  in  the  Campo  Santo,  with  the  serpent  guawiDg  the  heart, 


412 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


And  first,  much  is  to  be  done  by  right  modification  of  ac- 
cessory circumstances,  so  as  to  express  miraculous  power  ex- 
ercised over  them  by  the  spiritual  creature.  There  is  a  beau- 
„  ^     „       ,  tiful  instance  of  this  in  John  Bellini's  picture  of 

§  a       Supernat-  ^       ^  xr      •  mi  ♦  • 

uiai  character  ex-  bt.  Jcrome  at  Venice.    Ihe  samt  sits  upon  a 

pressed  by  modi-        i     ^•  t/? 

fication  of  acces-  rocK,  his  grand  lorm  denned  against  clear  green 
open  sky  ;  he  is  reading,  a  noble  tree  springs 
out  of  a  cleft  in  the  rock,  bends  itself  suddenly  back  to  form 
a  rest  for  the  volume,  then  shoots  up  into  the  sky.  There  is 
something  very  beautiful  in  this  obedient  ministry  of  the 
lower  creature  ;  but  be  it  observed  that  the  sweet  feeling  of 
the  whole  depends  upon  the  service  being  such  as  is  consist- 
ent with  its  nature.  It  is  not  animated,  it  does  not  listen  to 
the  saint,  nor  bend  itself  towards  him  as  if  in  affection,  this 
would  have  been  mere  fancy,  illegitimate  and  effectless.  But 
the  simple  bend  of  the  trunk  to  receive  the  book  is  miracu- 
lous subjection  of  the  true  nature  of  the  tree;  it  is  therefore 
imaginative,  and  very  touching. 

It  is  not  often  however  that  the  religious  painters  even  go 
this  length  ;  they  content  themselves  usually  with  impress- 
ing on  the  landscape  perfect  symmetry  and  order,  such  as 
may  seem  consistent  with,  or  induced  by  the  spiritual  nature 
§  9.  Landscape  they  would  represent.  All  signs  of  decay,  dis- 
piiuters.^^^^Tt^s  turbance,  and  imperfection,  are  also  banished  ; 
inenSy^%mmet-  doiug  this  it  is  evident  that  some  unnat- 

J^icai.  uralness  and  singularity  must  result,  inasmuch 

is  fine  ;  so  many  of  the  fiends  of  Orcagna,  and  always  those  of  Michael 
Angelo.  Tintoret  in  the  Temptation,  with  his  usual  truth  of  invention, 
has  represented  the  evil  spirit  under  the  form  of  a  fair  angel,  the  wings 
burning  with  crimson  and  silver,  the  face  sensual  and  treacherous.  It 
is  instructive  to  compare  the  results  of  imagination  associated  with 
powerful  fancy  in  the  demons  of  these  great  painters,  or  even  in  such 
nightmares  as  that  of  Salvator  already  spoken  of.  Sect.  I.  Chap.  V.  §  12 
(note,)  with  the  simple  ugliness  of  idiotic  distortion  in  the  meaningless 
terrorless  monsters  of  Bronzino  in  the  large  picture  of  the  UflBzii,  where 
the  painter,  utterly  uninventive,  having  assembled  all  that  is  abomi- 
nable of  hanging  flesh,  bony  limbs,  crane  necks,  staring  eyes,  and  strag-  . 
gling  hair,  cannot  yet  by  the  sum  and  substance  of  all  obtain  as  much 
real  fearf ulness  as  an  imaginative  painter  could  throw  into  the  turn  of 
a  lip  or  the  knitting  of  a  brow. 


OF  THE  SUPERIIUMAJSr  IDEAL. 


413 


as  there  are  no  veritable  forms  of  landscape  but  express  or 
imply  a  state  of  progression  or  of  imperfection.  All  moun- 
tain forms  are  seen  to  be  produced  by  convulsion  and  mod- 
elled by  decay  ;  the  finer  forms  of  cloud  have  stories  in  them 
about  storm  ;  all  forest  grouping  is  wrought  out  with  vari- 
eties of  strength  and  growth  among  its  several  members,  and 
bears  evidences  of  struggle  with  unkind  influences.  All  such 
appearances  are  banished  in  the  supernatural  landscape  ;  the 
trees  grow  straight,  equally  branched  on  each  side,  and  of 
such  slight  and  feathery  frame  as  shows  them  never  to  have 
encountered  blight  or  frost  or  tempest.  The  mountains  stand 
up  in  fantastic  pinnacles  ;  there  is  on  them  no  trace  of  tor- 
rent, no  scathe  of  lightning  ;  no  fallen  fragments  encumber 
their  foundations,  no  worn  ravines  divide  their  flanks  ;  the 
seas  are  always  waveless,  the  skies  always  calm,  crossed  only 
by  fair,  horizontal,  lightly  wreathed,  white  clouds. 

In  some  cases  these  conditions  result  partly  from  feeling, 
partly  from  ignorance  of  the  facts  of  nature,  or  incapability 
of  representing  them,  as  in  the  first  type  of  the  treatment 
§  10.  Landscape  of  fouud  in  Giotto  and  his  school  ;  in  others  they 
BenozzoGozzoii.  observed  ou  principle,  as  by  Benozzo  Goz- 

zoli,  Perugino,  and  Raffaelle.  There  is  a  beautiful  instance 
by  the  former  in  the  frescoes  of  the  Ricardi  palace,  where 
behind  the  adoring  angel  groups  the  landscape  is  governed 
by  the  most  absolute  symmetry  ;  roses  and  pomegranates, 
their  leaves  drawn  to  the  last  rib  and  vein,  twine  themselves 
in  fair  and  perfect  order  about  delicate  trellises  ;  broad  stone 
pines  and  tall  cypresses  overshadow  them,  bright  birds  hover 
here  and  there  in  the  serene  sky,  and  groups  of  angels,  hand 
joined  with  hand,  and  wing  with  wing,  glide  and  float 
through  the  glades  of  the  unentangled  forest.  But  behind 
the  human  figures,  behind  the  pomp  and  turbulence  of  the 
Kingly  procession  descending  from  the  distant  hills  the 
spirit  of  the  landscape  is  changed.  Severer  mountains  rise 
in  the  distance,  ruder  prominences  and  less  flowery  vary  the 
nearer  ground,  and  gloomy  shadows  remain  unbroken  be- 
neath the  forest  branches. 

The  landscape  of  Perugino,  for  grace,  purity  and  as  much 


414 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL, 


of  nature  as  is  consistent  with  the  above-named  conditions, 
is  unrivalled  ;  and  the  more  interesting  because  in  him  cer- 
tainly whatever  limits  are  set  to  the  rendering  of  nature  pro- 
ceed not  from  incapability.  The  sea  is  in  the  distance  almost 
always,  then  some  blue  promontories  and  undulating  dewy 
park  ground,  studded  with  glittering  trees  ;  in  the  landscape 
T    ,        -  of  the  fresco  in  S*^.  Maria  Maddalena  at  Flor- 

§  11.  Landscape  of 

Perugino  and  Raf-  ence  there  is  more  variety  than  is  usual  with 

faelle.  .  . 

him  ;  a  gentle  river  winds  round  the  bases  of 
rocky  hills,  a  river  like  our  own  Wye  or  Te«s  in  their  love- 
liest reaches;  level  meadows  stretch  away  on  its  opposite  side; 
mounds  set  with  slender-stemmed  foliage  occupy  the  nearer 
ground,  a  small  village  with  its  simple  spire  peeps  from  the  for- 
est at  the  bend  of  the  valley,  and  it  is  remarkable  that  in  archi- 
tecture thus  employed  neither  Perugino  nor  any  other  of  the 
ideal  painters  ever  use  Italian  forms  but  always  Transalpine, 
both  of  church  and  castle.  The  little  landscape  which  forms 
the  background  of  his  own  portrait  in  the  Uffizii  is  another 
highly  finished  and  characteristic  example.  The  landscape  of 
Raffaelle  was  learned  from  his  father,  and  continued  for  some 
time  little  modified,  though  expressed  with  greater  refinement. 
It  became  afterward  conventional  and  poor,  and  in  some  cases 
altogether  meaningless.  The  hay  stacks  and  vulgar  trees  be- 
hind the  St.  Cecilia  at  Bologna  form  a  painful  contrast  to  the 
pure  space  of  mountain  country  in  the  Perugino  opposite.* 

In  all  these  cases,  while  I  would  uphold  the  landscape  thus 
§  12  Such  Land  ^"^P^^J^^  treated,  as  worthy  of  all  admira- 
scape  is  not  to  be  tion,  I  should  be  sorrv  to  advance  it  for  imita- 

imitated.  .      '  .       .    ,      .  . 

tion.  What  is  right  m  its  mannerism  arose 
from  keen  feeling  in  the  painter :  imitated  without  the  same 

*  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  give  farther  instances  at  present, 
since  I  purpose  hereafter  to  give  numerous  examples  of  this  kind  of 
ideal  landscape.  Of  true  and  noble  landscape,  as  such,  I  am  aware  of 
no  instances  except  where  least  they  might  have  been  expected,  among 
the  sea- bred  Venetians.  Ghirlandajo  shows  keen,  though  prosaic,  sense 
of  nature  in  that  view  of  Venice  behind  an  Adoration  of  Magi  in  the 
Uffizii,  but  he  at  last  walled  himself  up  among  gilded  entablatures. 
Masaccio  indeed  has  given  one  grand  example  in  the  fresco  of  the 
Tribute  Money,  but  its  color  is  now  nearly  lost. 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL, 


415 


feeling,  it  would  be  painful  ;  the  only  safe  mode  of  following 
in  such  steps  is  to  attain  perfect  knowledge  of  nature  herself, 
and  then  to  suffer  our  own  feelings  to  guide  us  in  the  selection 
of  what  is  fitting  for  any  particular  purpose.  Every  painter 
ought  to  paint  what  he  himself  loves,  not  what  others  have 
loved  ;  if  his  mind  be  pure  and  sweetly  toned,  what  he  loves 
will  be  lovely;  if  otherwise,  no  example  can  guide  his  selection, 
no  precept  govern  his  hand  ;  and  farther  let  it  be  distinctly 
observed,  that  all  this  mannered  landscape  is  only  right  under 
the  supposition  of  its  being  a  background  to  some  supernatural 
presence  ;  behind  mortal  beings  it  would  be  wrong,  and  by  it- 
self, as  landscape,  ridiculous  ;  and  farther,  the  chief  virtue  of 
it  results  from  the  exquisite  refinement  of  those  natural  de- 
tails consistent  with  its  character  from  the  botanical  drawing 
of  the  flowers  and  the  clearness  and  brightness  of  the  sky. 

Another  mode  of  attaining  supernatural  character  is  by 
purity  of  color  almost  shadowless,  no  more  darkness  being 
allowed  than  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  explanation  of 
the  forms,  and  the  vividness  of  the  effect  enhanced  as  far  as 
may  be  by  use  of  gilding,  enamel,  and  other  jewellery.  I 
§13.  Color,  and  think  the  smaller  works  of  Angelico  are  perfect 
Their^use  in  rep-  Hiodels  in  this  respect  ;  the  glories  about  the 
'^r'^^e^.tl  l^eads  being  of  beaten  rays  of  gold,  on  which 
the  light  plays  and  changes  as  the  spectator 
moves  ;  (and  which  therefore  throw  the  purest  flesh  color 
out  in  dark  relief)  and  such  color  and  light  being  obtained 
by  the  enamelling  of  the  angel  wings  as  of  course  is  utterly 
unattainable  by  any  other  expedient  of  art  ;  the  colors  of 
the  draperies  alw^ays  pure  and  pale  ;  blue,  rose,  or  tender 
green,  or  brown,  but  never  dark  or  gloomy  ;  the  faces  of 
the  most  celestial  fairness,  brightly  flushed  :  the  height  and 
glow^  of  this  flush  are  noticed  by  Constantin  as  reserved  by 
the  older  painters  for  spiritual  beings,  as  if  expressive  of 
light  seen  through  the  body. 

I  cannot  think  it  necessary  while  I  insist  on  the  value  of 
all  these  seemingly  childish  means  when  in  the  hands  of  a 
noble  painter,  to  assert  also  their  futility  and  even  absurdity 
if  employed  by  no  exalted  power.  I  think  the  error  has  com- 


416  OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


monly  been  on  the  side  of  scorn,  and  that  we  reject  much  in 
our  foolish  vanity,  which  if  wiser  and  more  earnest  we  should 
delight  in.  But  two  points  it  is  very  necessary  to  note  in 
the  use  of  such  accessories. 

The  first  that  the  ornaments  used  by  Angelico,  Giotto,  and 
Perugino,  but  especially  by  Angelico,  are  always  of  a  generic 
and  abstract  character.    They  are  not  diamonds,  nor  bro- 
cades, nor  velvets,  nor  c^old  embroideries  ;  thev 

§14.  Decoration  '  ^       1       ^A  ^       ^         '       ^  f 

so  used  must  be  are  mere  spots  oi  gold  or  of  color,  simple  pat- 
generic.  terns  upon  textureless  draperies  ;  the  angel  wings 

burn  with  transparent  crimson  and  purple  and  amber,  but 
they  are  not  set  forth  with  peacock's  plumes  ;  the  golden 
circlets  gleam  with  changeful  light,  but  they  are  not  beaded 
with  elaborate  pearls  nor  set  with  studied  sapphires. 

In  the  works  of  Filippino  Lippi,  Mantegna,  and  many 
other  painters  following,  interesting  examples  may  be  found 
of  the  opposite  treatment  ;  and  as  in  Lippi  the  heads  are 
usually  very  sweet,  and  the  composition  severe,  the  degrad- 
ing effect  of  the  realized  decorations  and  imitated  dress  may 
be  seen  in  him  simply,  and  without  any  addition  of  paiiiful- 
ness  from  other  deficiencies  of  feeling.  The  larger  of  the 
two  pictures  in  the  Tuscan  room  of  the  Uffizii,  but  for  this 
defect,  would  have  been  a  very  noble  ideal  work. 

The  second  point  to  be  observed  is  that  brightness  of  color 
is  altogether  inadmissible  without  purity  and  harmony  ;  and 
that  the  sacred  painters  must  not  be  followed  in  their  frank- 
§  15.  And  color  ^^ss  of  unshadowed  color  unless  we  can  also  f  ol- 
P^^®*  low  them  in  its  clearness.    As  far  as  I  am  ac- 

quainted with  the  modern  schools  of  Germany,  they  seem  to 
be  entirely  ignorant  of  the  value  of  color  as  an  assistant  of 
feeling,  and  to  think  that  hardness,  dryness,  and  opacity  are 
its  virtues  as  employed  in  religious  art  ;  whereas  I  hesitate 
not  to  affirm  that  in  such  art  more  than  in  any  other,  clear- 
ness, luminousness  and  intensity  of  hue  are  essential  to  right 
impression  ;  and  from  the  walls  of  the  Arena  chapel  in  their 
rainbow  play  of  brilliant  harmonies,  to  the  solemn  purple 
tones  of  Perugino's  fresco  in  the  Albizzi  palace,  I  know  not 
any  great  work  of  sacred  art  which  is  not  as  precious  in  color 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL, 


417 


as  in  all  other  qualities  (unless  indeed  it  be  a  Crucifixion  of 
Fra  Angelico  in  the  Florence  Academy,  which  has  just  been 
glazed  and  pumiced  and  painted  and  varnished  by  the  pict- 
ure-cleaners until  it  glares  from  one  end  of  the  picture  gal- 
lery to  the  other;)  only  the  pure  white  light  and  delicate  hue 
of  the  idealists,  whose  colors  are  by  preference  such  as  we  have 
seen  to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  the  chapter  on  Purity  are 
carefully  to  be  distinguished  from  the  golden  light  and  deep 
pitched  hue  of  the  school  of  Titian  whose  virtue  is  the  grand- 
eur of  earthly  solemnity,  not  the  glory  of  heavenly  rejoicing. 

But  leaving  these  accessory  circumstances  and  touching 
the  treatment  of  the  bodily  form,  it  is  evident  in  the  first 
place  that  whatever  typical  beauty  the  human  body  is  cap- 
§  16.  Ideal  form  ^^^^  posscssing  must  be  bestowed  upon  it 
Cf  ^what"^  wie^y  ^^^^  '^^  understood  as  spiritual.  And  there- 
susceptibie.  fQj.^  thosc  general  proportions  and  types  which 
are  deducible  from  comparison  of  the  nobler  individuals  of  the 
race,  must  be  adopted  and  adhered  to  ;  admitting  among 
them  not,  as  in  the  human  ideal,  such  varieties  as  result  from 
past  suffering,  or  contest  with  sin,  but  such  only  as  are  con- 
sistent with  sinless  nature  or  are  the  signs  of  instantly  or 
continually  operative  affections  ;  for  though  it  is  conceivable 
that  spirit  should  suffer,  it  is  inconceivable  that  spiritual 
frame  should  retain  like  the  stamped  inelastic  human  clay, 
the  brand  of  sorrow  past,  unless  fallen. 

' '  His  face, 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  entrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek." 

Yet  so  far  forth  the  angelic  ideal  is  diminished,  nor  could  this, 
be  suffered  in  pictorial  representation. 

Again,  such  muscular  development  as  is  necessary  to  the 
perfect  beautv  of  the  body,  is  to  be  rendered, 

§  17.  Anatomical   V>  ,  i  ^  i      .  i 

development  how  JbSut  that  which  IS  neccssary  to  strength,  or 
which  appears  to  have  been  the  result  of  labo- 
rious exercise,  is  inadmissible.  No  herculean  form  is  spirit- 
ual, for  it  is  degrading  the  spiritual  creature  to  suppose  it 
operative  through  impulse  of  bone  and  sinew  ;  its  power  is 
iuimaterial  and  constant,  neither  dependent  on,  nor  developed 
Vol.  II.— 27 


418  OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


by  exertion.  Generally,  it  is  well  to  conceal  anatomical  de- 
velopment as  far  as  may  be  ;  even  Michael  Angelo's  anatomy 
interferes  with  his  divinity  ;  in  the  hands  of  lower  men  the 
angel  becomes  a  preparation.  How  far  it  is  possible  to  sub- 
due or  generalize  the  naked  form  I  venture  not  to  affirm,  but 
I  believe  that  it  is  best  to  conceal  it  as  far  as  may  be,  not 
with  draperies  light  and  undulating,  that  fall  in  with,  and  ex- 
hibit its  princij3al  lines,  but  with  draperies  severe  and  linear, 
such  as  were  constantly  employed  before  the  time  of  Raffaelle. 
1  recollect  no  single  instance  of  a  naked  angel  that  does  not 
look  boylike  or  childlike,  and  unspiritualized  ;  even  Fra  Barto- 
lomeo's  might  with  advantage  be  spared  from  the  pictures  at 
Lucca,  and,  in  the  hands  of  inferior  men,  the  sky  is  merely  en- 
cumbered with  sprawling  infants;  those  of  Domenichino  in  the 
Madonna  del  Rosario,  and  Martyrdom  of  St.  Agnes,  are  pecu- 
liarly offensive,  studies  of  bare-legged  children  howling  and 
kicking  in  volumes  of  smoke.  Confusion  seems  to  exist  in 
the  minds  of  subsequent  painters  between  Angels  and  Cupids. 

Farther,  the  qualities  of  symmetry  and  repose  are  of  pe- 
culiar value  in  spiritual  form.  We  find  the  former  most  ear- 
nestly sought  by  all  the  great  painters  in  the  arrangement  of 
§18.  Symmetry.  hair,  whcrciu  no  loosely  flowing  nor  varied 
How  valuable.  form  is  admitted,  but  all  restrained  in  undis- 
turbed and  equal  ringlets  ;  often,  as  in  the  infant  Christ  of 
Fra  Angelico,  supported  on  the  forehead  in  forms  of  sculpt- 
uresque severity.  The  Angel  of  Masaccio,  in  the  Deliverance 
of  Peter,  grand  both  in  countenance  and  motion,  loses  much  of 
his  spirituality  because  the  painter  has  put  a  little  too  much 
of  his  own  character  into  the  hair,  and  left  it  disordered. 

Of  repose,  and  its  exalting  power,  I  have  already  said 
§  19   Th   •  fl     ^"^^^^^  present  purpose,  though  I  have 

enceof  Greek  art,  not  insisted  ou  the  peculiar  manifestation  of  it 
how  dangerous.  Christian  ideal  as  opposed  to  the  pagan. 

But  this,  as  well  as  all  other  questions  relating  to  the  par- 
ticular development  of  the  Greek  mind,  is  foreign  to  the 
immediate  inquiry,  which  therefore  I  shall  here  conclude  in 
the  hope  of  resuming  it  in  detail  after  examining  the  laws  of 
beauty  in  the  inanimate  creation  ;  always,  however,  holding 


OF  TEE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL.  419 


this  for  certain,  that  of  whatever  kind  or  degree  the  short 
coming  may  be,  it  is  not  possible  but  that  short  coming  should 
be  visible  in  every  pagan  conception,  when  set  beside  Chris- 
tian ;  and  believing,  for  my  own  part,  that  there  is  not  only 
deficiency,  but  such  difference  in  kind  as  must  make  all  Greek 
conception  full  of  danger  to  the  student  in  proportion  to  his 
admiration  of  it  ;  as  I  think  has  been  fatally  seen  in  its  ef- 
fect on  the  Italian  schools,  when  its  pernicious  element  first 
mingled  with  their  solemn  purity,  and  recently  in  its  influ- 
ence on  the  French  historical  painters  :  neither  can  I  from 
my  present  knowledge  fix  upon  an  ancient  statue  which  ex- 
presses by  the  countenance  any  one  elevated  character  of 
soul,  or  any  single  enthusiastic  self-abandoning  affection, 
much  less  any  such  majesty  of  feeling  as  might  mark  the 
features  for  supernatural.  The  Greek  could  not  conceive  a 
§  20.  Its  scope,  spirit  ;  he  could  do  nothing  without  limbs  ;  his 
how  limited.  ^  finite  god,  talking,  pursuing,  and  going 

journeys;*  if  at  any  time  he  was  touched  with  a  true 
feeling  of  the  unseen  powers  around  him,  it  was  in  the  field 
of  poised  battle,  for  there  is  something  in  the  near  coming  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  something  in  the  devoted  fulfilment  of 
mortal  duty,  that  reveals  the  real  God,  though  darkly  ;  that 
pause  on  the  field  of  Plataea  was  not  one  of  vain  superstition  ; 
the  two  white  figures  that  blazed  along  the  Delphic  plain, 
when  the  earthquake  and  the  fire  led  the  charge  from  Olym- 
pus, were  more  than  sunbeams  on  the  battle  dust  ;  the  sacred 
cloud,  with  its  lance  light  and  triumph  singing,  that  went 
down  to  brood  over  the  masts  of  Salamis,  was  more  than 
morning  mist  among  the  olives  ;  and  yet  what  were  the 
Greek's  thoughts  of  his  god  of  battle  ?  No  spirit  power  was 
in  the  vision  ;  it  was  a  being  of  clay  strength  and  human 
passion,  foul,  fierce,  and  changeful  ;  of  penetrable  arms  and 
vulnerable  flesh.    Gather  what  we  may  of  great,  from  pagan 

*  I  know  not  anything  in  the  range  of  art  more  unspiritual  than  the 
Apollo  Bel videre;  the  raising  of  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  in  surprise 
at  the  truth  of  the  arrow  is  altogether  human,  and  would  be  vulgar  in 
a  prince,  much  more  in  a  deity.  The  sandals  destroy  the  divinity  of  the 
foot,  and  the  lip  is  curled  with  mortal  passion. 


420 


OF  THE  SUPEMHUMAN  IDEAL. 


chisel  or  pagan  dream,  and  set  it  beside  the  orderer  of  Chris- 
tian warfare,  Michael  the  Archangel  :  not  Milton's  "  with 
hostile  brow  and  visage  all  inflamed,"  not  even  Milton's  in 
kingly  treading  of  the  hills  of  Paradise,  not  Raffaelle's  with 
the  expanded  wings  and  brandished  spear,  but  Perugino's 
with  his  triple  crest  of  traceless  plume  unshaken  in  heaven, 
his  hand  fallen  on  his  crossleted  sword,  the  truth  girdle 
binding  his  undinted  armor  ;  God  has  put  his  power  upon 
him,  resistless  radiance  is  on  his  limbs,  no  lines  are  there  of 
earthly  strength,  no  trace  on  the  divine  features  of  earthly 
anger  ;  trustful  and  thoughtful,  fearless,  but  full  of  love,  in- 
capable except  of  the  repose  of  eternal  conquest,  vessel  and 
instrument  of  Omnipotence,  filled  like  a  cloud  with  the  victor 
light,  the  dust  of  principalities  and  powers  beneath  his  feet, 
the  murmur  of  hell  against  him  heard  by  his  spiritual  ear  like 
the  winding  of  a  shell  on  the  far-off  sea-shore. 

It  is  vain  to  attempt  to  pursue  the  comparison  ;  the  two 
orders  of  art  have  in  them  nothing  common,  and  the  field  of 
sacred  history,  the  intent  and  scope  of  Christian  feeling,  are 
too  wide  and  exalted  to  admit  of  the  juxtaposi- 

§  21.  Conclusion.     .  „  ,  ,  ji?  /- 

tion  oi  any  other  sphere  or  order  oi  conception  ; 
they  embrace  all  other  fields  like  the  dome  of  heaven.  With 
what  comparison  shall  we  compare  the  types  of  the  martyr 
saints,the  St.  Stephen  of  Fra  Bartolomeo,  with  his  calm  fore- 
head crowned  by  the  stony  diadem,  or  the  St.  Catherine  of  Raf- 
faelle  looking  up  to  heaven  in  the  dawn  of  the  eternal  day, 
with  her  lips  parted  in  the  resting  from  her  pain  ?  or  with 
what  the  Madonnas  of  Francia  and  Pinturicchio,  in  whom  the 
hues  of  the  morning  and  the  solemnity  of  the  eve,  the  glad- 
ness in  accomplished  promise,  and  sorrow  of  the  sword- 
pierced  heart,  are  gathered  into  one  human  lamp  of  ineffable 
love  ?  or  with  what  the  angel  choirs  of  Angelico,  with  the 
flames  on  their  white  foreheads  waving  brighter  as  they  move, 
and  the  sparkles  streaming  from  their  purple  wings  like  the 
glitter  of  many  suns  upon  a  sounding  sea,  listening,  in  the 
pauses  of  alternate  song,  for  the  prolonging  of  the  trumpet 
blast,  and  the  answering  of  psaltery  and  cymbal,  throughout 
the  endless  deep  and  from  all  the  star  shores  of  heaven  ? 


ADDENDA. 


421 


ADDENDA. 


Although  the  plan  of  the  present  portion  of  this  work 
does  not  admit  of  particular  criticism,  it  will  neither  be  use- 
less nor  irrelevant  to  refer  to  one  or  two  works,  lately  before 
the  public,  in  the  Exhibitions  of  the  Royal  Academy,  which 
either  illustrate,  or  present  exceptions  to,  any  of  the  preced- 
ing statements.  I  would  first  mention,  with  reference  to  what 
has  been  advanced  respecting  the  functions  of  Associative 
Imagination,  the  very  important  work  of  Mr.  Linnell,  the 
"  Eve  of  the  Deluge  ;  "  a  picture  upheld  by  its  admirers  (and 
these  were  some  of  the  most  intelligent  judges  of  the  day) 
for  a  work  of  consummate  imaginative  power  ;  while  it  was 
pronounced  by  the  public  journals  to  be  "  a  chaos  of  uncon- 
cocted  color."  If  the  writers  for  the  press  had  been  aware  of 
the  kind  of  study  pursued  by  Mr.  Linnell  through  many  labo- 
rious  years,  characterized  by  an  observance  of  nature  scru- 
pulously and  minutely  patient,  directed  by  the  deepest  sensi- 
bility, and  aided  by  a  power  of  drawing  almost  too  refined 
for  landscape  subjects,  and  only  to  be  understood  by  reference 
to  his  engravings  after  Michael  Angelo,  they  would  have  felt 
it  to  be  unlikely  that  the  work  of  such  a  man  should  be  en- 
tirely undeserving  of  respect.  On  the  other  hand,  the  grounds 
of  its  praise  were  unfortunately  chosen  ;  for,  though  possess- 
ing many  merits,  it  had  no  claim  whatever  to  be  ranked  among 
productions  of  Creative  art.  It  would  perhaps  be  difficult  to 
point  to  a  work  so  exalted  in  feeling,  and  so  deficient  in  in- 
vention. The  sky  had  been  strictly  taken  from  nature,  this 
was  evident  at  a  glance  ;  and  as  a  study  of  sky  it  was  every 
way  noble.  To  the  purpose  of  the  picture  it  hardly  contrib- 
uted ;  its  sublimity  was  that  of  splendor,  not  of  terror  ;  and 
its  darkness  that  of  retreating,  not  of  gathering,  storm.  The 


422 


ADDENDA. 


features  of  the  landscape  were  devoid  alike  of  variety  and 
probability  ;  the  division  of  the  scene  by  the  central  valley  and 
winding  river  at  once  theatrical  and  commonplace  ;  and  the 
foreground,  on  which  the  light  was  intense,  alike  devoid  of 
dignity  in  arrangement,  and  of  interest  in  detail. 

The  falseness  or  deficiency  of  color  in  the  works  of  Mr. 
Landseer  has  been  remarked  above.  The  writer  has  much 
pleasure  in  noticing  a  very  beautiful  exception  in  the  picture 
of  the  "  Random  Shot,"  certainly  the  most  successful  render- 
ing he  has  ever  seen  of  the  hue  of  snow  under  warm  but  sub- 
dued light.  The  subtlety  of  gradation  from  the  portions  of 
the  wreath  fully  illumined,  to  those  which,  feebly  tinged  by 
the  horizontal  rays,  swelled  into  a  dome  of  dim  purple,  dark 
against  the  green  evening  sky  ;  the  truth  of  the  blue  shad- 
ows, with  which  this  dome  was  barred,  and  the  depth  of  deli- 
cate color  out  of  which  the  lights  upon  the  footprints  were 
raised,  deserved  the  most  earnest  and  serious  admiration  ; 
proving,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  errors  in  color,  so  fre- 
quently to  be  regretted  in  the  works  of  the  painter,  are  the 
result  rather  of  inattention  than  of  feeble  perception.  A 
curious  proof  of  this  inattention  occurs  in  the  disposition  of 
the  shadows  in  the  background  of  the  "  Old  Cover  Hack," 
No.  229.  One  of  its  points  of  light  is  on  the  rusty  iron  han- 
dle of  a  pump,  in  the  shape  of  an  S.  The  sun  strikes  the 
greater  part  of  its  length,  illuminating  the  perpendicular  por- 
tion of  the  curve  ;  yet  shadow  is  only  cast  on  the  wall  behind 
by  the  returning  portion  of  the  lower  extremity.'  A  smile 
may  be  excited  by  the  notice  of  so  trivial  a  circumstance ;  but 
the  simplicity  of  the  error  renders  it  the  more  remarkable, 
and  the  great  masters  of  chiaroscuro  are  accurate  in  all  such 
minor  points  ;  a  vague  sense  of  greater  truth  results  from 
this  correctness,  even  when  it  is  not  in  particulars  analyzed 
or  noted  by  the  observer.  In  the  small  but  very  valuable 
Paul  Potter  in  Lord  Westminster's  collection,  the  body  of  one 
of  the  sheep  under  the  hedge  is  for  the  most  part  in  shadow, 
but  the  sunlight  touches  the  extremity  of  the  back.  The  sun 
is  low,  and  the  shadows  feeble  and  distorted  ;  yet  that  of  the 
sunlighted  fleece  is  cast  exactly  in  its  true  place  and  proper-* 


ADDENDA. 


423 


tion  beyond  that  of  the  hedge.  The  spectator  may  not  ob- 
serve this  ;  yet,  unobserved,  it  is  one  of  the  circumstances 
which  make  him  feel  the  picture  to  be  full  of  sunshine. 

As  an  example  of  perfect  color,  and  of  the  most  refined 
handling  ever  perhaps  exhibited  in  animal  painting,  the 
Butcher's  Dog  in  the  corner  of  Mr.  Mulready's  "  Butt,"  No. 
160,  deserved  a  whole  room  of  the  Academy  to  himself.  This, 
with  the  spaniel  in  the  "  Choosing  the  Wedding  Gown,"  and 
the  two  dogs  in  the  hayfield  subject  (Burchell  and  Sophia),  dis- 
plays perhaps  the  most  wonderful,  because  the  most  dignified, 
finish  in  the  expression  of  anatomy  and  covering — of  muscle 
and  hide  at  once,  and  assuredly  the  most  perfect  unity  of 
drawing  and  color,  which  the  entire  range  of  ancient  and 
modern  art  can  exhibit.  Albert  Durer  is  indeed  the  only 
rival  who  might  be  suggested  ;  and,  though  greater  far  in 
imagination,  and  equal  in  draughtsmanship,  Albert  Durer 
was  less  true  and  less  delicate  in  hue.  In  sculpturesque  ar- 
rangement both  masters  show  the  same  degree  of  feeling : 
any  of  these  dogs  of  Mulready  might  be  taken  out  of  the  can- 
vas and  cut  in  alabaster,  or,  perhaps  better,  struck  upon  a  coin. 
Every  lock  and  line  of  the  hair  has  been  grouped  as  it  is  on  a 
Greek  die  ;  and  if  this  not  always  without  some  loss  of  ease 
and  of  action,  yet  this  very  loss  is  ennobling,  in  a  period  when 
all  is  generally  sacrificed  to  the  great  coxcombry  of  art,  the 
affectation  of  ease. 

Yet  Mr.  Mulready  himself  is  not  always  free  from  affecta- 
tion of  some  kind  ;  mannerism,  at  least,  there  is  in  his  treat- 
ment of  tree  trunks.  There  is  a  ghastliness  about  his  labored 
anatomies  of  them,  as  well  as  a  want  of  specific  character. 
Why  need  they  be  always  flayed  ?  The  hide  of  a  beech  tree, 
or  of  a  birch  or  fir,  is  nearly  as  fair  a  thing  as  an  animal's  ; 
glossy  as  a  dove's  neck  barred  with  black  like  a  zebra,  or 
glowing  in  purple  grey  and  velvet  brown  like  furry  cattle  in 
sunset.  Why  not  paint  these  as  Mr.  Mulready  paints  other 
things,  as  they  are  ?  that  simplest,  that  deepest  of  all  secrets, 
which  gives  such  majesty  to  the  ragged  leaves  about  the  edges 
of  the  pond  in  the  Gravel-pit,"  (No.  125,)  and  imparts  a 
strange  interest  to  the  grey  ragged  urchins  disappearing  be- 


424 


ADDENDA. 


hind  the  bank,  that  bank  so  low,  so  familiar,  so  sublime  ! 
What  a  contrast  between  the  deep  sentiment  of  that  com- 
monest of  all  common,  homeliest  of  all  homely,  subjects,  and 
the  lost  sentiment  of  Mr.  Stanfield's  "  Amalfi  "  the  chief  land- 
scape of  the  year,  full  of  exalted  material,  and  mighty  crags, 
and  massy  seas,  grottoes,  precipices,  and  convents,  fortress- 
towers  and  cloud-capped  mountains,  and  all  in  vain,  merely 
because  that  same  simple  secret  has  been  despised  ;  because 
nothing  there  is  painted  as  it  is  !  The  picture  was  a  most 
singular  example  of  the  scenic  assemblage  of  contradictory 
theme  which  is  characteristic  of  Picturesque,  as  opposed  to 
Poetical,  composition.  The  lines  chosen  from  Rogers  for  a 
titular  legend  were  full  of  summer,  glowing  with  golden  light, 
and  toned  with  quiet  melancholy  : 

To  him  who  sails 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages. 
Scattered  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds, 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark  bluC  sea, 
And  glittering  thro*  their  lemon  groves,  announce 
The  region  of  Amalfi.    Then,  half -fallen, 
A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice, 
Their  ancient  landmark,  comes — long  may  it  last  I 
And  to  the  seaman,  in  a  distant  age, 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt, 
Serve  for  their  monument." 

Prepared  by  these  lines  for  a  dream  upon  deep,  calm  waters, 
under  the  shadow  and  scent  of  the  close  lemon  leaves,  the 
spectator  found  himself  placed  by  the  painter,  wet  through, 
in  a  noisy  fishing  boat,  on  a  splashing  sea,  with  just  as  much 
on  his  hands  as  he  could  manage  to  keep  her  gunwale  from 
being  stove  in  against  a  black  rock  ;  and  with  a  heavy  grey 
squall  to  windward.  (This  squall,  by  the  by,  was  the  very 
same  which  appeared  in  the  picture  of  the  Magra  of  1847, 
and  so  were  the  snowy  mountains  above  ;  only  the  squall  at 
Amalfi  entered  on  the  left,  and  at  the  Magra  on  the  right.) 
Now  the  scenery  of  Amalfi  is  impressive  alike  in  storm  or  calm, 
and  the  writer  has  seen  the  Mediterranean  as  majestic  and  as 
southern-looking  in  its  rage  as  in  its  rest.  But  it  is  treating 
both  the  green  water  and  woods  unfairly  to  destroy  their 


ADDENDA. 


425 


peace  without  expressing  their  power  ;  and  withdraw  from 
them  their  sadness  and  their  sun,  without  the  substitution  of 
any  effect  more  terrific  than  that  of  a  squall  at  the  Nore. 
The  snow  on  the  distant  mountains  chilled  what  it  could  not 
elevate,  and  was  untrue  to  the  scene  besides  ;  there  is  no 
snow  on  the  Monte  St.  Angelo  in  summer  except  what  is  kept 
for  the  Neapolitan  confectioners.  The  great  merit  of  the  pict- 
ure was  its  rock-painting  ;  too  good  to  have  required  the  aid 
of  the  exaggeration  of  forms  which  satiated  the  eye  through- 
out the  composition. 

Mr.  F.  R.  Pickersgill's  "Contest  of  Beauty"  (No.  515.), 
and  Mr.  Uwins's  "Vineyard  Scene  in  the  South  of  France," 
were,  after  Mr.  Mulready's  works,  among  the  most  interest- 
ing pieces  of  color  in  the  Exhibition.  The  former,  very  rich 
and  sweet  in  its  harmonies,  and  especially  happy  in  its  con- 
trasts of  light  and  dark  armor  ;  nor  less  in  the  fancy  of  the 
little  Love  who,  losing  his  hold  of  the  orange  boughs,  was 
falling  ignominiously  without  having  time  to  open  his  wings. 
The  latter  was  a  curious  example  of  what  I  have  described  as 
abstraction  of  color.  Strictly  true  or  possible  it  was  not  ;  a 
vintage  is  usually  a  dusty  and  dim-looking  procedure  ;  but 
there  were  poetry  and  feeling  in  Mr.  Uwins's  idealization  of 
the  sombre  black  of  the  veritable  grape  into  a  luscious  ultra- 
marine purple,  glowing  among  the  green  leaves  like  so  much 
painted  glass.  The  figures  were  bright  and  graceful  in  the 
extreme  and  most  happily  grouped.  Little  else  that  could 
be  called  color  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  walls  of  the  Exhibi- 
tion, with  the  exception  of  the  smaller  works  of  Mr.  Etty. 
Of  these,  the  single  head,  "Morning  Prayer,"  (No.  25.),  and 
the  "Still  Life"  (No.  73.),  deserved,  allowing  for  their  pe- 
culiar aim,  the  highest  praise.  The  larger  subjects,  more  es- 
pecially the  St.  John,  were  wanting  in  the  merits  peculiar 
to  the  painter  ;  and  in  other  respects  it  is  alike  painful  and 
useless  to  allude  to  them.  A  very  important  and  valuable 
work  of  Mr.  Harding  was  placed,  as  usual,  where  its  merits 
could  be  but  ill  seen,  and  where  its  chief  fault,  a  feebleness 
of  color  in  the  principal  light  on  the  distant  hills,  was 
apparent.    It  was  one  of  the  very  few  views  of  the  year 


426 


ADDENDA. 


which  were  transcripts,  nearly  without  exaggeration,  of  the 
features  of  the  localities. 

Among  the  less  conspicuous  landscapes,  Mr.  W.  E.  Digh- 
ton's  "Hay  Meadow  Corner"  deserved  especial  notice;  it 
was  at  once  vigorous,  fresh,  faithful,  and  unpretending,  the 
management  of  the  distance  most  ingenious,  and  the  paint- 
ing of  the  foreground,  with  the  single  exception  of  Mr.  Mul- 
ready's  above  noticed,  unquestionably  the  best  in  the  room. 
I  have  before  had  occasion  to  notice  a  picture  by  this  artist, 
"  A  Hayfield  in  a  Shower,"  exhibited  in  the  British  Institu- 
tion in  1847,  and  this  year  (1848)  in  the  Scottish  Academy, 
whose  sky,  in  qualities  of  rainy,  shattered,  transparent  grey, 
I  have  seldom  seen  equalled  ;  nor  the  mist  of  its  distance, 
expressive  alike  of  previous  heat  and  present  beat  of  rain.  I 
look  with  much  interest  for  other  works  by  this  painter. 

A  hurried  visit  to  Scotland  in  the  spring  of  this  year, 
while  it  enables  the  writer  to  acknowledge  the  ardor  and 
genius  manifested  in  very  many  of  the  works  exhibited  in 
the  Scottish  Academy,  cannot  be  considered  as  furnishing 
him  with  sufficient  grounds  for  specific  criticism.  He  cannot, 
however,  err  in  testifying  his  concurrence  in  the  opinion  ex- 
pressed to  him  by  several  of  the  most  distinguished  members 
of  that  Academy,  respecting  the  singular  merit  of  the  works 
of  Mr.  H.  Drummond.  A  cabinet  picture  of  "  Banditti  on 
the  Watch,"  appeared  to  him  one  of  the  most  masterly,  un- 
affected, and  sterling  pieces  of  quiet  painting  he  has  ever 
seen  from  the  hand  of  a  living  artist  ;  and  the  other  works 
of  Mr.  Drummond  were  alike  remarkable  for  their  manly  and 
earnest  finish,  and  their  sweetness  of  feeling. 


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